


A Widow Nesting

by nikonic



Category: Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - All Fandoms
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, Established Relationship, Family, Fluff, Team Dynamics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-29
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-13 03:36:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nikonic/pseuds/nikonic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life throws the Avengers' resident assassins for a little loop; a story in which we see how the newly minted Avengers Tower handles a pint-sized assassin baby. Hawkeye/Black Widow established relationship, all Avengers included at one point. Rated for language</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing.

"Tasha," he yelled as he watched his partner duck into a stairwell and out of sight. "What are you doing?" Hawkeye continuously fired arrow after arrow into the sea of enemies swarming the building. They were seriously outgunned and outmanned. "Nat," he called again. He couldn't hear her heaving breathing through her comm link. "Woman, if you lost your damn comm because one of these bastards knocked you in the head, I'm going to superglue that fucker in your damn ear. Natasha, do you copy?"

Six minutes passed and he heard nothing. He swore in every language he knew until he caught a flash of her red curls on the roof below. Armed enemies were making their way up to the landing where she was. One fired and he saw her wince. "Fuck," he grumbled. He was always better at cussing in English. When he saw her signal, he coded a zip line hook onto his arrow before aiming at the low roof of an adjacent building. She took a sprawling jump off her roof and he swung from his a moment later.

His body collided with hers and he wrapped his arm around her tightly, holding her close. As he landed on the roof, he pressed his comm to call for immediate extraction from the rendezvous point. "Target force not wiped out. Armed enemies still at location. Back up requested immediately." He looked at Natasha, who looked deathly pale but held up a flash drive. "Mission accomplished. USB retrieved. Mark terminated. We need immediate medical team. Romanov has been hit." SHIELD agents barked in his ear affirmative remarks and commands to the teams on the ground. He faintly heard the fire fight across the street.

He was entirely focused on the fiery redhead in front of him. "Tasha, stay with me." The archer continued to talk to her, forcing her to answer questions as he searched for the entry wounds causing the most blood loss. "What's your favorite city?"  
"Budapest," she whispered, her voice quiet against the street noise.  
"What's your least favorite city?"  
"Budapest."  
"How many tattoos do you have?"  
"Three."  
"What's my favorite color?"  
"Purple."  
"What shirt of mine did you steal?"  
"Mine," she slurred.  
"Yeah, it's yours now only because I can never figure out where you hide it. What's on that shirt, Tasha?" Her eyelids fluttered dangerously. "Tasha, you've got to stay awake. Medic is almost here."  
"Love you." Her words jumbled and his heart clenched in his chest. Her eyelids drooped.  
"If you can hear me, squeeze my hand, Tasha. Okay?" He waited, pressing his free hand to his comm links "Damnit where the hell are you?" He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I love you too, Tasha," he whispered in her ear after briefly muting the comm link.

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"You two are out of your fucking minds," Fury scolded. Hawkeye sat uncomfortably at the debriefing table, wanting to be in his partner's infirmary room instead. "Absolutely fucking crazy. Would it kill you to do one mission by the book? Get in. Get the USB. Don't alert every freaking armed guard in a forty-mile radius of your presence as operatives, and then get the fuck out. It doesn't sound that hard, Agent Barton! So what went wrong?"

"There was a silent alarm set up by the mark that we weren't aware of. Whether he triggered it or it was the pitch of a gunshot or it was a perimeter breach, we were outmanned and outgunned within minutes of being on the property. There was no way to get in and get out before his goon squad showed up."

"So you covered from a perch and Romanov ran unprotected into enemy fire, stole the USB drive, wiped the hard drives, and killed the mark before getting shot six times and taking a suicide jump off a roof."

"It wasn't a suicide jump, Director. She knew I would catch her. It was her only evacuation plan. We accomplished the mission. I don't see what the problem is." Barton, ever calm and collected, was starting to get angry. He had already reached frustration and was quickly escalating to pissed.

"The problem is I don't like clean up, and I'm constantly cleaning up after whatever shit you and your partner pull without regard to the mission parameters. Until further notice, you're both on solo assignments. Consider your partnership on hold. Dismissed, Agent Barton." The archer stood up and stalked out of the room using every bit of self control possessed not to shoot Fury in his only good eye.

As he left he passed Hill in the hall, the younger woman gave him an apologetic smile and clasped him on the shoulder. "I'll see what I can do to fix this. Go see Natasha." Clint nodded, once again grateful for their handler, who silently passed over the wedding rings she held for safekeeping. He hoped Hill could talk some sense into Fury. Breaking up their partnership would be detrimental. He would leave SHIELD before resuming indefinite solo missions on the other side of the world. Where she went, he went. There was a permanent spot by her side that was rightfully his, and he wouldn't give that up for anything.

He entered her room and perched dutifully at her bedside. Natasha looked deathly pale still, but the steady beeping of the heart monitor helped assure him she was alive. A doctor came in and explained that she should wake up in the next 24 hours, as her body needed time to recuperate. The man also detailed a list of her injuries, though Barton wasn't really listening. He would read the file when the doctor left. He would also bet money his partner didn't need 24 hours. At most, six he bet himself.

The partners were well versed in the art of first aid. Neither willingly went to doctors or infirmaries. Both preferred to let the other cleanse the wounds received if possible. Numerous missions ended with Barton gently cleaning bullet grazes and deftly sewing gashes from knives and daggers or Natasha skillfully removing pieces of glass from his skin or tenderly bandaging his forearm and fingers from where the bowstring had worn down skin. It was a soothing ritual and clearly portrayed the best parts of their marriage.

They were each other's support in every way possible. He trusted her to be his ears when he took out his hearing aids. She trusted him not to use her emotions against her. He always had her back, and she always had his. They completed each other. He told her that once and she nearly punched him. After he explained though, she had understood his point. She fought hand-to-hand, close combat. It was her forte. He fought best from a distance, using his spectacular sight and aim to his advantage. They covered each other's cracks and weaknesses. They presented themselves, not as two separate people, not as two partners, but as one unified front.

He just wanted to see her bright green eyes and hear her laugh at his stupid joke. He wanted to feel unified again. Watching her lying in a hospital bed with wires and monitors making her look small, he felt broken. He picked up her hand between his, noting how small her hand looked next to his. He kissed her bruised and slightly bloodied knuckles before dropping his forehead to the bed, never letting go of her hand. It wasn't the most comfortable position, but he had slept in worse. The steady beeping of the monitor and the feel of her hand in his comforted him. So Hawkeye finally allowed his assassin side to slip ever so slightly to take a nap perched on his wife's hospital bed.

He woke to the feeling of fingers threading through his hair. But he knew those fingers and Clint couldn't help but let out a grateful sigh as he turned his head slightly to look at Natasha. "Hi," she greeted quietly.

"Hey." He shuffled around to not jostle her and she glared at him for tiptoeing around her. "Hi," he repeated with a gentle smile. He kissed her and rested his forehead against hers, cradling her face in his palms. Her eyes fluttered closed at the touch as she leaned into him. No longer Widow or even Romanov, at this moment she was Natasha as he was Clint, and they were both glad to be alive. "You scared the living shit out of me. Absolutely terrified me, Tasha."

"Hmm," she mumbled noncommittally. "Nice catch though."

"I've had practice. You tend to jump off buildings frequently."

"Hmm," she mumbled again. "What's the damage?"

"Six gun shot wounds ranging from more-than-a-graze-less-than-a-whole to should-have-been-fatal. Not to mention the other general battle wounds-bruises, gashes, and scrapes."

"Not too bad then."

"Not too bad then," he repeated, his voice heightening in pitch. "Not too bad? Natasha, you almost bled out in my arms. You told me you loved me and then passed out from blood loss. Should-have-been-fatal gunshot wound most certainly doesn't fall into the category of 'not too bad then.' You spraining your ankle because you acrobat-ed around some guy's neck with your thighs and landed on debris qualifies as 'not too bad.' You almost dying in my arms... Tasha, that is very, very bad. Damnit," he swore as he moved away, pacing the short length of the infirmary room.

"Clint," she called quietly. He stopped pacing but turned from her. She could see the tension etched in his shoulders, his posture. "Come back." He scrubbed a hand over his face before turning back to her and sitting in the chair designated as his by the bed. "I've been hurt worse before. We both have. What's going on?"

"I... Natasha..." He stumbled over his words. "Coulson is trying to fix it."

"Fix what?" She laced her fingers with his; they both needed the comfort of the contact.

"Natasha," he whispered again, an excuse forming on his lips.

"Clint." His name was a soft demand, but a demand nevertheless.

"Fury terminated our partnership. Or put it on hold or something. He said we're going to be put on solo missions." He felt her tense in front of him. God, he hated Fury at that moment. How he wished to shoot him.

Her Russian kicked in as she started to rant at a speed he couldn't follow. Her natural accent slipped in, and it almost made him smile. Her accent only bled into her speech when she was angry, feeling personally targeted. In a professional sense, she kept in perfect control- her language, her words, her movements, her emotions; everything was calculated. But when it was the two of them, when it was Natasha and Clint as opposed to Black Widow and Hawkeye, she dropped the walls designed to protect her and she let him in. He cherished those moments, knowing how much it cost her to be vulnerable.

"I know," he assured her despite the fact he missed a good amount of rant. "Trust me. I know. Where you go, I go. You're stuck with me. It's legally binding," he smirked, lifting the chain around his neck as acknowledgement. When they weren't on a mission, he wore his wedding band around the necklace that hid beneath his t-shirt. It threw off his aim, he claimed. She always smirked when he used that as his excuse. It had the same effect this time as her green eyes dramatically rolled.

"Lucky me," she teased with a yawn.

"Get some sleep." He didn't need to tell her he would be there when she woke up. She knew. Like she knew he would catch her when she jumped, she knew he would be sitting there holding her hand and waiting patiently (always the sniper) to take her home.

"I'm not tired," she rebutted, barely able to suppress the yawn.

"Bull. You sleep, and I'll concoct ways to blackmail and or maim Fury."

"I knew I loved you for some reason," she teased as she closed her eyes to sleep.

"Move," she demanded of the junior agent standing in front of the doorway. He paled but stood stock-still. Her face, her demeanor, screamed Black Widow. Clint leaned against the wall somewhat content to watch the show.

"Darling," he drawled just to piss her off. "Your Russian is showing."

Ignoring her partner, she leveled the junior agent with a glare that could kill. "Move. Now."

"Fury ordered your continued recovery be on base."

"You can tell Fury to stick his damn order up his..."

"Tasha," Clint chided, causing her sentence to switch into Russian expletives and threats. "You can't kill him. You'll pull your stitches... Again. Then, Fury will never let you leave base."

"I don't need my legs to kill him. That's just the way I prefer; you know how much I like the thigh choke. I could kill him 34 different ways with my damn middle finger, and that's not injured. See," she offered, giving him the finger with a smirk. The poor agent guarding the door looked like he just might wet himself.

"Go get Fury, and we promise to stay in the room," Barton told the young man, ignoring the protesting glare from his partner. "She actually will kill you if you keep standing there. Confinement isn't really her thing. I'd give you a reference to confirm that, but people who try are dead. I can only hold her off for so long." The agent fled quickly to look for the director.

"One of these days, you'll agree and let me kill one of those little bastards," she huffed as she sat on the edge of the bed, clenching her jaw at the sudden discomfort of putting pressure on stitches. "Damn," she muttered unhappily. "I just want to go home."

"Agent Barton, Agent Romanov," Fury greeted in an unwelcoming monotone as he walked through the door. "Barton, here. Plane leaves in two hours. Romanov, you're on recovery for a fortnight. You're to remain on this base. Do I make myself clear? And stop terrorizing the junior agents. I refuse to make diapers part of their daily uniforms."

"This mission is indefinite," Barton spoke, glaring at the Director after flipping through the offered file.

"For now, it is. I need your eyes on a possible Hydra front."

"Indefinitely."

"Yes. Get packed."

"No."

"No?" Fury questioned as Natasha fixed him with a pointed questioning glare.

"No."

"Last time I checked, I was still your boss, Agent Barton. But let's pretend for a second that you have a say in the mission you're given. Why the hell are you saying no?"

Barton looked at Natasha, who shrugged and nodded slightly. "I refuse to go on an indefinite mission to," he paused, flipping though the file again. "Kuwait," he finished with a low growl.

"And why is that?"

"Barton, can I speak to you? Outside. Now." Hill demanded as she stuck her head in the door. "Before you say something stupid... Or stupider." Natasha let out a breath and Barton slipped past Fury to the hallway.

"There's a debriefing packet waiting for you in your room."

"Sir, you said I was on recovery."

"You're going undercover: long-term, deep undercover. A smuggling ring is taking children and turning them into assassins. You're going to infiltrate. The packet explains it all. You'll leave in four days."

"For how long?"

"What is it with you and Agent Barton asking about time frames? You go where you go for as long as it takes to complete the mission. Do your damn job." The tension in the room could be cut with a knife. Outside, there was a clear thud of someone punching a wall before Barton stalked back in the room. "Where are you going, Agent Barton?" Fury demanded as the younger man grabbed their bags from the corner and took Natasha's hand.  
"I'm taking my wife home. We're taking two weeks vacation. I'm sure you can find other agents qualified for babysitting Hydra and perfecting intel." He led her past Fury, who was still balking at his agent, and straight toward the elevator. Neither said a word as they loaded into their car and left the base, though he never let go of her hand.

Twenty minutes out, his phone rang and he glared at the screen. "What?" Natasha couldn't hear the conversation, and she didn't really care. Something had set him off, and she wanted to know what it was. She wanted to know if she still had a job, if he still had a job, though first she needed to figure out if she wanted to keep said job in the first place. She couldn't sort out her feelings until she knew all the facts, like what made her usually calm collected husband snap and storm off base after telling Fury they were married in passing. He hung up without another word, rhythmically clenching and unclenching his jaw. It was a tell tale sign that breaching conversation now wouldn't get her anywhere. Instead she moved the arm rests up and laid her head on his lap, curling into a slight ball, to go to sleep. It was her sign to him that she was willing to go wherever he needed, that she would be there when he needed her. She fell asleep quickly, comforted by his presence and the rumble of the car along the back roads to wherever they were headed.

He looked down at her and tucked a stray red curl behind her ear. He liked to drive. He found it soothing to drive through endless miles of country roads, focusing on the turmoil of his emotions and letting his senses and training autopilot the steering. So he drove and drove, letting his mind sort out its jumbled state.

Almost a full tank of gas was gone before he pulled into a lonely gas station diner combination. "Tasha," he whispered, rubbing her shoulder soothingly. "I found food."

"Congratulations. Do you want a damn gold sticker," she mumbled, her words somewhat muted by his t-shirt in which her face was slightly buried.

"Yes, you delightful ball of sunshine, I would love a gold sticker, but seeing as you don't carry stickers with you, I'll settle for a hot cup of coffee and pie." She sat up slowly and glared at him. She was not a morning person, or really not a person to be woken up against her will. "I bet they make a mean milkshake." He tried bribery and her stomach grumbled its consent. "I win," he noted smugly as he got out of the car and skipped around to open her door.

The diner had very few patrons and an elderly waitress named Flo, who doted on the young couple happily.  
"How are your stitches?" Clint asked through a bite of his cheeseburger.

"Still holding my skin together," she answered smoothly.

"Good, then they're doing their job. I should probably change the bandage covering them before we hit the road again," he noted absently with a gulp of his coffee. "Damn that's good stuff, much better than base swill. Ma'am, could I have some more coffee please?" The waitress shuffled over and poured him a fresh cup, which he graciously accepted.

"Everything is better than base swill. I would prefer to eat raw coffee beans than whatever sludge is in the pot in the rec room. Wherever we're going has good coffee, yes?"

"I value my life. I wouldn't take you anywhere there wasn't a hefty supply of good coffee."

"Smart man," she hummed, taking a spoonful of her milkshake. They continued to eat in companionable silence. "Should I change into something more comfortable?" It was her way of asking how much longer they would be driving. She didn't care where they were going or how long it took to get there, but she didn't want to ride much longer in jeans that were starting to be too uncomfortable given the numerous wounds on her legs and back.

"If you change into sweats and a looser shirt, I'll be able to change the bandages easier. Your tight jeans make getting to your thighs complicated, unless you just want to strip for me in the parking lot."

"Yeah, I'll just change, but enjoy that image, Barton. Oh, and try to keep it in your pants," she teased as she grabbed the keys and went to grab a bag out of the trunk.

"I'll try, darling, but I make no promises." She tossed a glare over her shoulder, though there was a smirk on her face, as the door jingled her exit.

"Y'all make a cute couple, honey. How long have ya been together?"

"Thank you, ma'am. Just over ten years now."

"Y'all must have just been babies ten years ago," she mused. "Well, that girl loves you that's for damn sure. You do right by her, ya hear? We need more gentleman in this world."

"Yes ma'am," he agreed. "Thank you." He lifted the check in acknowledgement while Natasha slipped into the bathroom holding a change of clothes and a first aid kit. After dropping cash onto the table, he popped his head in the bathroom to see Natasha clad in a sports bra and underwear, twisted and looking at her bandages in the mirror. Flipping through the kit, he noticed they were out of hydrogen peroxide. Borrowing a bottle from Flo, he returned to remove her bandages, clean the wounds, and re-bandage. He met her eyes in the mirror as he traced a raised starburst scar near the small of her back. "I love you, you know," he whispered as he kissed one of her shoulder blades. She smiled and nodded responding in Russian. "Ready to hit the road?"

"I'm going back to sleep on your lap." He smirked and shook his head with a laugh. She pulled on his sweatpants and carefully dragged on a top over the recently bandaged wounds.

In the car, she settled in the passenger seat with her head in Clint's lap, her face slightly covered by the extra fabric of his t-shirt as she turned her body towards the back of the car. He smiled at her fondly, pressing a kiss to her knuckles before the engine rumbled to life, and they were off in the dark.

"We're here," he nudged softly, slipping a hand under the loose waistband of the sweatpants to caress her left hip. His thumb swiped gently at an old scar she received from shrapnel caused by one of his exploding arrowheads.

"There's coffee here?"

"Of course, Tasha. It's a vacation not hell."

She sat up slowly, noting the yellow hue tinting the horizon. Sunrise was just around the corner. She looked at Clint first. He looked tired, but more relaxed than before. Then she looked at their surroundings. "We're home," she murmured happily as she recognized the little cottage on a cliff.

"We are. You said you wanted home. We're home."

"Thank you," she said sincerely, her voice low and raspy.

"Let's get unpacked."

"We don't have clothes or supplies unless you have magical powers I don't know about."

"I called in a favor." She raised her eyebrows at his statement. "The guys were worried. You know JARVIS records our comm links on missions we aren't with the Avengers." She nodded and started calculating how long it had been since they were both at home. "It's been much too long," he mused as if reading her thoughts.

When they were both settled on the deck, she finally brought up the topic. She couldn't see his face as her back was to his chest, her head resting on his shoulder. "What happened in the hall with Hill?" He tensed behind her before setting his steaming cup of coffee on the ledge and wrapping his arms around her. The archer stayed silent for some time. "Clint," she prodded. "What's going on?"

"The mission, your mission, it's a suicide mission." She nodded. She figured as much. When the adjectives 'long term' and 'in depth undercover' were used, she knew the danger factor increased. She also knew when the missions were hush-hush, going so far as lying about medical leave to a partner, that there was a good chance she wouldn't return if she accepted the mission. In Clint's arms on the patio of their home, she wanted nothing more than to reject the mission. She wanted whatever this was, the odd normalcy of the moment, and she definitely didn't want to die.

"Hill didn't want you to go. Fury doesn't want you to go apparently. I sure as hell don't want you to go. The Council decided you would be fit for the job after the number of agents who have been KIA due to the mission." He paused, and the silence resumed. She thought he was done talking until he nuzzled her neck and spread his hands over her belly. "Hill also mentioned something that worried the medical team." That sure as hell got her attention. She wracked her brain trying to think of an injury he sustained or something that would cause the medical team to worry about him. "The doctor told Hill because she's your handler. She told me accidentally. I really don't think she meant to, but she let it slip while she was berating me for something or other." He paused again, clearly fumbling for words.

"Spit it out, Clint," she encouraged, though he could hear a trace of nerves in her voice.

"You're pregnant." He couldn't keep the smile off of his face, but naturally he was worried about what the assassin in his arms would think about the situation.

It was her turn to tense up. Her brain whirled a mile a minute and she looked down to her stomach where Clint's large hands rested comfortably. She couldn't find words. She couldn't assess her feelings. It was too much. She started to panic because she felt her control spiraling away.

Memories flashed before her eyes. Her parents, her real parents, were caught in a fiery blaze. A woman, her new mother, pulled her from the wreckage to a new home known as the Red Room. A young girl she was ordered to kill when she was 12 and the girl, her friend, 10. A baby sentenced to death by a Widow's bullet as a message to a president and his wife. Sao Paolo, when a young boy ran into the line of fire a moment too late and his mother sobbing over his lifeless body. The hospital fire, when a floor of children was engulfed in flames because her mark decided to choose his own fate and die in a bomb explosion as opposed to a bullet to the head.

If memories taught her anything, it was that she was awful with children. Her hands weren't meant to cradle or comfort. Her body wasn't meant to give life. She had been broken down and remade, her brain and body turned into weapons. Her body was meant to kill. She was the Black Widow. She wasn't maternal. She couldn't be maternal. Red Room had taken the humanity in her soul and beat it out of her until she fought back in perfect form, efficient and deadly. She couldn't be responsible for another that depended entirely on her. She couldn't bring a baby into the world knowing the dangers it would face simply because it was the Black Widow's child. She couldn't do it. Her other options weren't any better.

She didn't realize she was crying nor did she realize Clint had rearranged their seating. Her breathing was ragged, and her chest burned. It felt like someone had gripped her heart and twisted painfully. She couldn't do this. She couldn't be a mother, and she couldn't break Clint's heart when he was obviously excited about the child, their child.

"Tasha," he whispered softly, trying to pull her out of her trance without startling her. Her knees framed his hips as he had shifted their position. He needed to see her face and he needed to comfort her. In her trance, he had moved her gently (ever careful of her stitches), so that she was in his lap but straddling him this time, her chest flush against his. Her head tilted and rested against his shoulder, so she could hear his heartbeat. He ran his hands soothingly along her spine. "Tasha," he murmured again.

He would be a great father, she thought to herself. God, he would be fantastic- just the right amount of discipline with so much laughter and fun. She could see him smiling happily at a little baby and chasing a toddler around a living room. She could see him teaching a child how to shoot bows and arrows at tree stumps and comforting a teenager with a broken heart. God, she wanted to give that to him. He deserved to be happy. He deserved a family. She just couldn't give that to him. A baby wasn't in her cards. It wasn't something she could handle. It wasn't something she deserved.

"Natasha," he asked. He cradled her face in his rough calloused palms, trying to seek out her eyes with his. The pain and the fear he could see swirling in her green eyes made his heart clench. She bit her lip before breaking their eye contact. She couldn't look into his stormy blue eyes and see all that concern and love shining back at her. She wanted to cry, and that wasn't something she was used to. The Black Widow did not cry.

She was out of his arms and running so quickly that he barely had time to blink. He was almost sure she pulled at least some of her stitches bolting away as quickly as she had. He sighed and put his head in his hands, forcing himself to breathe. Grabbing their forgotten mugs, he went inside to wash them as he tried to give her the space she obviously wanted.

He stood outside the bathroom door listening to the water run. He would have sworn he could feel the steam from the shower escaping from the bathroom through the crack under the door. When Clint heard her strangled sob somewhat muffled by the pouring water, he knocked. "Tasha."

"Go away." Her mumbled words could barely be heard over the water.

"I'm coming in," he announced. He couldn't let her cry by herself. He wanted to comfort her, wrap her in his arms and make everything better. Clint picked the lock easily, and the steam escaped from the small bathroom quickly as he opened the door. Natasha leaned heavily against the sink, bracing herself with tense forearms that shook slightly. Her back curved and her head drooped slightly. Her red curls hiding her face from view. He turned off the water and moved to stand behind her, wrapping arms tightly around her waist. His cheek rested against her shoulder blade. "Tasha," his voice breathed against her back.

She pictured him rocking their child, singing lullabies and giving a bottle. Her heart ached to see that scene, to have that idea be a reality, but she knew she couldn't bring a child into this world. All three options seemed equally inappropriate and impossible.

"Talk to me, Tasha." He slowly turned her in his arms. His rough palms cradled her face gently. "You don't have to work this through by yourself," he reminded her. "I'm right here." His thumb swiped tenderly at a tear that escaped. One hand shifted to tangle in her hair, bringing her to him in an embrace, as his other hand wrapped around her back.

"I'm pregnant," she mumbled.

"We," he corrected. She looked up at him, an unspoken question swimming in her eyes. "It's been we since you took my hand in Budapest."

"Which time?" She whispered despite herself. "The time you didn't kill me, the time I almost died, the time you almost died, or the time you decided to get married amidst gunfire?"

He laughed softly at her question, kissing her forehead. "From Day One, Tasha, it's been you and me."

"Maybe I should give birth in Budapest," she mused. "Everything important happens in Budapest." The words came out of her mouth before she could catch them. Her brow furrowed for a second, but she quickly schooled her features. Her brain worked through things a mile a minute. She had the reassurance she needed from him. She couldn't abort their child. She had done enough killing in her life. She knew she couldn't add that red to her ledger; she would never be able to balance that out. She couldn't give a child up for adoption, as she would always be second guessing herself and working about the child. That left her with one option, and god, she wanted to see Clint be a father. If he had her back, she could make this work. She could work her way through it.

"Give birth," Clint choked out. He pulled her back a little, so he could look her in the eyes. She kissed him softly, chastely, and tenderly. "Give birth," he asked again. "Tasha?"

"You get to tell Stark he has to build a nursery in our suite in the Avengers' Tower." He nodded happily, a huge grin breaking across his face. His arms wrapped around her, and he spun her in a circle.

"I'll tell the whole damn world, Tasha. We're going to have a baby. We're going to have a family."

"The whole damn world, maybe not, but you also get to tell Fury."

He groaned into her hair. She responded with a laugh. "We are definitely not talking about Fury right now. His bald, shiny head will not ruin this moment."

"He's good at that," she confirmed. "But I may have a different way to ruin the moment." He pulled back and looked at her. "I pulled my stitches." Clint groaned again, turning her around to get a good look. Blood slowly dripped from two of the wounds on the back of her legs.

He sighed before grabbing the first aid kit from the cabinet to the left, ushering her into their bedroom. "Let's hope our child doesn't have your penchant for not listening to doctors."

"Banner is going to have his hands full."

"Avengers Tower will never be the same again."

"Damn straight," she laughed despite the needles threading through her sore skin. "Well fuck," she mumbled into the pillow. She felt his eyes on her. "No vodka," she answered the unspoken question.

"I think there's a rule about coffee too."

"You have got to be shitting me." She flipped over to look at him. "We might have to figure something else out. I'm not good without my coffee. Maybe Stark can invent something that will let you carry the little hawk."

"Why isn't he or she a little spider?"

"Because spiders have numerous babies at a time, Clint. I think we'll have our hands full with one."

"Do you know anything at all about how hawks have babies?"

"Shut up and sew, bird boy."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing. No infringement intended. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think. I always love reviews.

Four days into their vacation, they ran out of coffee. Natasha almost stabbed him with a fork. Sitting at the small table in their kitchen, he looked over his plate of pancakes and mumbled that their stash of caffeine had depleted. The grimace on her face, the icy glare in her eyes, and the imperceptible twitch in her knife hand had him scrambling to find his car keys. When the fork, still sticky with syrup, sailed past his head, he all but ran from the cottage, forgetting his shoes and his wallet, both of which were thrown through the door after him. 

She didn’t even look up when he came in. She just focused on the page in front of her as she said, “You don’t value your life nearly enough, Barton. What happened to that line about a hefty amount of coffee?” He had stopped being surprised by her ability to sense his arrival long ago. He smiled but said nothing as he organized what was purchased into the kitchen. 

Two days later, she was firing at a tree from the deck. “Are we out of ammo?” 

“Said the pregnant assassin recovering from stitches on vacation?” 

“First of all, it’s not recovering from stitches. Who says that? You’re an idiot. Secondly, answer the question before I take your beloved bow out for a spin.”

“It is recovering stitches when said stitched person rips them out every other day. Touch my bow, and die.”

“It’s not my fault my husband can’t keep his hands to himself, and really, Barton, like you could kill me. We both know I can kick your ass any day.” She walked in from the deck to find her husband flipped over the couch. His ankles crossed and rested on the back of the couch as his head dangled off the edge of the couch cushion. “Why in the world are you looking at our living room upside down?” He grunted his response and looked at her. 

“You’re pretty upside down.”

“Yeah, okay. We’re going crazy. It’s time to go back to Avengers Tower.” 

“Thank God.” Clint did a quasi-somersault off the couch, landing flat on his stomach on the floor with a nice oomph. 

“Wow,” Natasha drawled slowly, barely containing her laughter.

“That kind of hurt my stomach,” he groaned with a smile as he lifted into push-up position and then onto his feet.

“You’re such a pussy,” she teased as he sauntered towards her. He gave her a mock pout, and she patted his face, though it was more of a gentle slap. “Did the mean couch hurt you?” 

“Your mockery hurts me. I’m wounded.” He drew out the vowels in the last word, receiving a tremendous eye roll in return. She crossed her arms over her chest and fixed him with a look that he knew meant I-love-you-that-doesn’t-mean-I-won’t-punch-you. “So on that note, I’m going to go pack.” He stole a kiss before retreating quickly to the bedroom.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••  
The look on Stark’s face was absolutely priceless. His jaw went slack for a moment, and it was clear that his mind was reeling. He spent about 45 seconds trying to piece together how he himself had not put two-and-two together. “So you’re technically Natasha Barton?” 

“I’m sure you didn’t mean to say that as condescending as it sounded,” Barton interjected from his spot at the table. “It sounds like you’re surprised she picked me.” 

“Were you married when you were Natalie Rushman?” 

“We’ve been partners for ten years. You delivered supplies to a joint safe house. How in the world in your perverted mind did you not get that we were sleeping together?”

“That’s not even remotely an answer,” he grumbled. “Were you even legally of age when you defected from Mother Russia? And in my defense, I always thought you were sleeping with him. I just didn’t think you had the capability to wed and feel and love and feel. Ya know the whole Black Widow moniker? I’m surprised you aren’t dead yet, Barton. Though I’ve seen you two spar, it’s not for lack of trying.” 

“Ignore him. He’s just being obnoxious because he and his nosy self didn’t figure out you were married. Congratulations by the way, however belated they may be,” Banner said. 

“Well Stark, you may want to grab your balls and kiss your ass goodbye because she’s pregnant,” Barton blurted out. 

Natasha just looked at him and rolled her eyes. “Really? That’s how you decide to tell them? Kiss your ass goodbye? God, I hope you find a more couth way of explaining the situation to Fury.” 

At that, Rogers was choking on his drink. “Can we back up a few paces?” He sputtered in the midst of knocking on his chest repeatedly.

“Pregnant. With child. Bun in the oven. Knocked up. Eating for two. Her eggo is preggo?” Barton started listing all sorts of sayings, and the poor captain just stared at him with a slack jaw. 

“Her eggo? What’s an eggo?” 

“Her eggs, Captain. Her eggs are pregnant. It’s on play on the modern breakfast food,” Banner tried to explain. Cue spit take number two as Steve spewed his water across the table. 

“Congratulations,” he all but whimpered, trying desperately to clear his face of the telltale blush of embarrassment.

“I have questions,” Stark demanded. “I have lots of questions.”   
“I’ll answer five,” Natasha informed him. Of course, Stark heard that as a chance to negotiate.  
“Twenty.”  
“Five.”  
“Fifteen.”  
“Five.”  
“Ten.”  
“Five,” she repeated and gave him a pointed look.   
“Five,” he agreed with a sullen pout. “How long have you been married?”   
“Four years.”   
“How far along are you?”   
“I don’t know.”   
“Does Fury know you’re married?”  
“He does now.”  
“Does SHIELD know you’re pregnant?   
“Not yet.”   
“Have you written your will? Because I call your guns.”

“What,” Clint and Natasha responded simultaneously.

“Because you know Fury is going to tear you a new one. In other words, you’re both dead meat, and I call dibs on his exploding arrow tips too!” 

“You’re such a child,” Natasha shook her head. “Fury isn’t going to kill us.” 

“No, of course not, he’s going to welcome an assassin baby with open arms. Can’t you just imagine it? A curly red-headed child running around shooting Nick Fury on his bald head with a toy bow-and-arrow. Of course, Fury is going to be like a Cyclops grandfather. That’s not intimidating at all.” Clint couldn’t help but laugh at Banner’s comment. The scientist was usually quiet, but he had a biting wit, which made him the perfect friend for Stark, who was getting a kick of Banner’s comment as well. 

“If you could give me a heads up when you decide to inform the old man of your eggo, not only do I want to be there, but I want to sell tickets. It’s going to be fantastic.” A fork hit Tony smack dab on the forehead. “Hey now, Spidey, play nice,” he chastised, rubbing the spot with his palm. 

“That IS nice, Stark,” she emphasized. “I could have stabbed you with it or thrown it in such a way that it impaled your head. Given the previous options, being knocked on the head with a piece of cutlery doesn’t sound so bad, does it?” 

“The next nine months are going to be splendid, aren’t they?” Stark groaned as he dropped his head unceremoniously onto the table. “Who wouldn’t want to witness the world’s deadliest assassin battling pregnancy, morning sickness, emotional roller coasters, and hormones? I may start permanently wearing my suit.” 

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••  
“Hill, in my office, now.”   
“Yes sir.”

Hill stood at attention just inside the closed door of the Director’s office. “Since my two best agents decided to waltz off base and announce a long vacation, I decided to flip through their jackets. As their handler, I thought you could provide some further insight.” Hill nodded, but said nothing. “Care to have a seat or a drink? If I know them at all, I’m going to need a drink.” After Hill sat down, she started to relax. She had always been Fury’s left hand man as Coulson had been his right. “First, did Coulson know they were married?”

“Yes sir.”

“Son of a bitch,” he shook his head. Her eyes widened a little bit. “You cannot place a bet if you already know the answer to the question on which money is being bet. Still, he owes me 30 bucks. I was right.” 

“Sir?” Hill asked. She realized she had been doing a lot of that confused up talking in the conversation. 

“It’s about damn time. How long have they been married? Hell, I half expected them to be married when he dragged her ass in here after he couldn’t shoot her in Budapest the first time. If they were married then, I don’t want to know. She was 18 when she defected, right?”

“16,” Hill corrected. 

“Yeah, I don’t want to know if they were married when he brought her back in that slip knot concoction he called handcuffs.” 

“They’ve been married four years. Coulson was their witness during a shoot-out in Budapest, ironically enough.” 

“Isn’t that Assassin 101? Don’t fall in love with another assassin? Isn’t that the entire premise of that Angelina Jolie movie? What is it?” 

“Mr. and Mrs. Smith.”

“That one. Isn’t the entire premise of that movie about not falling in love with an assassin?”

“Actually, that movie is about how two assassins are married, are hired to kill each other, and manage to make it work romantically and professionally.” 

“Well isn’t that a load of crap?” 

“Cinematically, enough action to keep people engaged. Realistically, action scenes are crap, though they usually are. Though making it work, sir, Romanov and Barton seem to have a good handle on it.” 

“Coulson always said that. He said something about how watching them fight was like watching a choreographed dance, even when he just brought her in.” 

“Yes sir. They sense each other’s movements. They move seamlessly whether it’s as partners in a firefight or opponents on the mat. Coulson believed in soul mates. He believed that’s why Barton couldn’t loose the arrow when he had the chance.” 

“Coulson thought they could make it work?”

“Yes sir, he did.” 

“Do you think they can make it work without being compromised in the field?” 

“They’ve been compromised from Day One, sir. Whether we want to acknowledge it or not, that’s how their partnership works. It doesn’t affect their professionalism though. They’ve taken bullets and beatings to save the other. Even before they were married, before they were romantically involved, their loyalty has been to each other first and foremost.” 

“Is it a weakness in the field?” 

“No, not the way I see it and not the way Coulson saw it. She will do whatever it takes to keep him alive. He will do the same for her. From an organizational point, sir, our best assets are keeping each other from dying. From a handler’s perspective, it’s going to compromise them more by splitting them up. They do their best work together. They’re the best team SHIELD has for now. Having them on solo missions would be a detriment.” 

“Point taken. Get their marriage license and put it in their files. You’re free to go.” Hill nodded and got up to leave. Before she reached the door, Fury stopped her. “What did you mean ‘for now,’ Hill?” 

Her brow furrowed. “They’re both getting older, sir.” 

“Mhmm,” he hummed. “And the real reason you added that phrase to your sentence?” 

“That’s an interesting question. You may want that drink now.” She turned around to face him and clasped her hands in front of her. Taking her advice, Fury took a long gulp of his whisky. “Agent Romanov is pregnant, sir.” The undignified coughing choke that sputtered from the Director’s throat was almost enough to make her laugh. Almost. After all, she did like her job, and laughing in such a way at the director of one of the world’s greatest intelligence agencies was a fast track to the unemployment line, even if he was a friend.

“You did that on purpose,” he accused. “She told you she was pregnant? Confirmed?” 

“No sir. I don’t think she knows unless Agent Barton informed her.” 

He downed the rest of his drink before continuing. “Let me get this straight. My two best agents have been married four years. Fine, I can handle that. Said agents are pregnant. A little less fine because I don’t even want to imagine the type of sex two assassins have; a lot less fine because I can’t imagine the whirlwind of terror that the child will be; a little more fine because I can’t wait to watch Stark baby proof Avengers Tower. Coulson would get a kick out of that. What is a little disconcerting is that the mother in this equation is, to the extent of your knowledge, unaware she is pregnant, but her handler, her boss, her husband, and a slew of medical professionals all know she is pregnant. Do you see where I’m going with this, Agent Hill?” 

“Barton is going to talk to her while they’re away.” 

“Romanov is going to kill him. Why didn’t the doctor who found the results follow protocol and tell her she was with child?” 

“Sir, he’s a medical professional. He has no training in weapons or self-defense. Would you really want him to be the one to the Black Widow that she’s expecting a bundle of joy? He would be dead, sir. Barton, at least, can defend himself… sometimes.” 

“Am I running an organization where people can ignore protocol because they’re intimidated by an agent?” 

“She’s not just an agent, Fury. She’s the Black Widow, and if that’s not intimidating enough, her partner is Hawkeye. They’re our best agents for a reason. While it was against protocol and the information passage was a little unorthodox, you can’t blame the man for a little self-preservation technique.” 

“Point taken. When they’re back on base, I want a meeting with them.” 

“Yes sir.” She saluted before leaving the office. 

“Wow,” he grumbled to himself after the door closed. “That child is in for a whole world of crazy.”

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••  
“Tasha,” Clint called as he walked into their suite. “Tasha.”   
“I’m afraid Mrs. Barton is not here, sir.”  
“Okay. Thanks JARVIS.”  
“Sir, would you like to know her whereabouts?”  
“No thanks. That takes the fun out of finding her.” 

She wasn’t in their suite or on their floor. He reasoned his second best guess would be the basement training facility. When that struck out, he tried the common floors. He checked the movie lounge, the library, and even the garage. Then he started looking though his hiding places. When he finally found her, a good hour and a half after his search began; she was on the roof, sitting on the ledge with her legs dangling over the side while her body leaned against the protective railings surrounding the roof. “There you are. Let’s hope our child isn’t as good at hide-and-seek as you are.” She nodded, her legs swinging rhythmically. “Tasha.” He nudged her shoulder as he sat next to her, mimicking her position. She looked over at him, doubt in her eyes as she bit her bottom lip. “What’s wrong?” 

“We’re assassins,” she stated. “And when we’re not assassins, we’re one third of a team of super heroes who save the world from global catastrophes. Can we do this?” Natasha paused for a second, clearly mulling the words over in her head. He waited patiently. “That’s not what I meant.” She backtracked, although he wasn’t offended by the question; he too had his doubts. What new parent didn’t? 

“I meant… I… I’m scared, Clint. This is nothing we were ever trained for. This is nothing I was ever trained for. Red Room,” she paused again, grimacing as she worked through her words again. “They don’t seem to have their programming down, but still, this is new. This is uncharted territory. This is emotions, nurture, comfort, and family. Clint, I can’t do that. I’m horrible at that. I have no doubt that you will be a fantastic father. It’s the thing that keeps me confident. I know, at least, this child will have you. I just… Can I do this? I’m the Black Widow. Nowhere is that moniker synonymous with anything maternal or family oriented. Just… Fuck, Clint. I don’t know anymore.”

“Can you love this child?” 

“Yes. I already do.” 

“Do you want our child to be happy and healthy?” 

“Of course.”

“Then we will be just fine. Tasha, we’re going to make mistakes. Like you said, we’re two assassins having a baby, but all new parents make mistakes. No one is perfect. No one has a guidebook to help them. But hey, between the two of us, we know a million ways NOT to raise a child. That has to be worth something.” She gave a soft laugh. “This child is going to be so loved, Tasha. That’s what matters. Let’s face it. The Avengers, we’re a family. This child has three superhero uncles and an uncle who is a demi-god. It’s going to be utter chaos, but the little nugget will be so loved. And I don’t see what you see. I think you’ll be a great mother.” She scoffed at him, so he continued with his explanation. 

“You hold a conversation with Banner about the latest science news, not because you’re interested, but because he’s interested. You know when to comfort Rogers when he’s feeling homesick and when to drag him to the mats and make him spar. You know how to shut down Tony’s obnoxious sense of humor and rambling ideas without damaging his pride or your relationship. 

You’re the Black Widow, yes, and that doesn’t change because we have a baby. But you have a softer side. You trust. You love. You care. You think it’s the comforting you’re going to have the hardest time with, but you’re wrong. I’ve felt it. I wake up from a nightmare and you’re there. After a close call with a mission, you’re there. I trust you, Tasha. You won’t screw this up. Our child won’t have your childhood or mine. Our child will have a childhood- an actual childhood filled with bubbles and toys and family.” She dipped her head against his shoulder and he kissed the top of her head. “We’re going to be okay, Tasha.” And for once, she actually believed the platitude. 

“Did it sound as weird as I thought it did to say ‘little nugget?’” 

She actually laughed out loud. “Yeah, Barton. Add that to the list of words you are not allowed to use in reference to the baby or me. Ever.”

“I still don’t know why you rejected some of them. They’re sweet!” His proclamation got him an eye roll. She didn’t make a move to push him off the roof, so Clint decided to push his luck. “I mean come on, Tasha. What’s wrong with baby, love of my life, lovebird, ladylove, baby cakes, sugar lips, my enchantment, honey, babe, pearl, and sweetheart? Oh! I’ve got a new one!” She sent him a warning look, but there was a smirk dancing in her eyes. “I shall call you Dumpling!” 

She got off the ledge and walked away, shaking her head. “No Dumpling then. How about Tootsie? Buttercup? Honey Bun? Lamb?” When the roof top access slammed, he couldn’t help but laugh. Had someone told him that his life would take this turn- married with a baby on the way- he would have shot said person. But sitting on the roof of Avengers Tower, probably locked out of the main building thanks to his lovely wife and her undeniable hatred for pet names, he couldn’t imagine his life any other way. “Good thing you’re good at embracing the craziness, ya old carnie,” he mocked himself as he climbed off the ledge.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••  
It wasn’t until they were lying in bed that night when he brought up part of her conversation on the roof. The blackout curtains were drawn, and the room was cold. He rolled onto his side, propped his head up with his elbow, and reached a hand to her stomach to pull her close to him. “Tasha?”

“Hmm,” she mumbled. 

“What did you mean when you said they didn’t have their programming down?” 

“Hmm,” she mumbled, but he could hear a difference. “I…” He felt her grimace. He felt her rib cage rise and fall as she drew in a deep, stabilizing breath. “Red Room,” she started. “They’re good at what they do, at getting what they want. You’re broken and pieced back together just to be broken again. They do it over and over again until you’ve been beaten into a cold, calculated killer who’s efficient and deadly. You’re beaten and sculpted until your first instinct isn’t defending but attacking. You’re always on alert, always waiting. You don’t have trust. You don’t have love. You have your experience telling you that life hurts and it’s not fair. If you don’t feel, you don’t hurt. You start to feel and they take everything away in a way that destroys everything good.” Her voice was strong, calm, and collected. It was as though she was speaking of someone else’s past. 

“Tasha,” he soothed.

“I was twelve. I made a friend in a new recruit. She was ten, and I could hear her crying in the middle of the night. I tried to comfort her. She was my friend. Our handler found out. And I was ordered to kill the little girl. It was my first kill, and she was my friend.” The slight tremor in her voice gave away her true feelings, though no one would have picked up on it but him. He pulled her closer. She paused, taking another deep breath. “Red Room doesn’t expect you to live to be able to have kids. They train child assassins. Very few make it to puberty, even fewer to adulthood. It’s a procedure of sorts. Basically, they found a way to ensure that even if their assassins live to be adults that they can never have children. They didn’t have their programming down because not only am I alive, not only do I trust and love, but I’m pregnant, which means their procedures, their programming, failed.” 

He kissed her forehead and tried to pull her impossibly closer. Before he asked the question, he knew he wasn’t going to like the answer. “What do you mean by procedure, Tasha?” She tensed in his arms, and he thought she was going to bolt. 

“Nothing good,” she responded softly. He hated Red Room. He had always hated them since the first night they had spent in Budapest with her curled in a ball in the corner and him trying to figure out the words to say to Fury to convince the director that she wasn’t a wild card. There was nothing to be said that could make it better, so he curled around her as if to protect her from the world. Blindly, he kissed her in the dark, declared his love in a whisper against her lips, and sent a prayer to anyone listening for a dreamless sleep.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••  
“We’re going to have a pint-sized ninja baby in Avengers Tower,” Stark said, still trying to wrap his head around the words coming out of his mouth. He sipped at his bourbon thoughtfully.

“Be nice, Tony,” Pepper scolded. 

“Technically, the baby isn’t going to just be a pint-sized ninja baby,” Barton informed him from his bar stool. “That term is fantastic, by the way. I’ve got to remember to tell Tasha that one.” 

“I need to build you cutlery-proof skin suit or something. Romanov loves to throw things at us.”

“And rightly so. You two are idiots,” Pepper interjected. “You’re either mortal enemies or partners in crime. It’s much easier to hit both of you first and then ask questions.” Tony scoffed at her. “I don’t have her aim, so I resort to smacking you both on the head. It’s effective. Speaking of effective, where is Natasha?” 

Barton mumbled something into his drink. “What was that, Robin Hood? Did you get in trouble? Are you in time out?” For his mockery, Pepper smacked the back of his head. “Hey!” 

“I warned you to be nice. Don’t make me do it again.” 

“Legolas, we’re going drinking! Come on! We’ll leave Spidey to sulk and brood or whatever pregnant assassins do in their spare time, and we need to get out of Pepper’s range of hitting.” 

“Tony, I’ve managed to coral you into submission from China. My wrath is far reaching.” It was said with such a sweet smile that he could almost believe there wasn’t a threat swirling under her sugar coated words. “Don’t let him die, Tony. If you kill him, Natasha kills you. Oh! And then my life is a lot easier.” She paused, mockingly contemplating something in her head. “Then again, Natasha would be sad. Don’t let him die.” 

“Ma’am, yes ma’am. Robin to the Bat Mobile!” 

“That reference had nothing to do with archery. You lose.” Barton quipped with a smirk as he sauntered to the elevator, already feeling the effects of a few classes of Tony’s expensive bourbon.

The two men climbed into the elevator discussing the pros and cons of certain bars in the area. “JARVIS,” Pepper called. “Keep an eye on them, please. This never ends well.” 

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••  
“So you’re going to be a dad? That’s something,” Stark said as he waved over the bartender, ordering another rounds of shots. 

“So you’re going to be an uncle? That’s something,” Barton countered. When Tony stared at him with a confused look, the archer shrugged simply. “We’re more than a team, Stark. You know that as well as I do. This crazy conglomeration of people is a family, yes?” The older man nodded. “If you’re family and I have a kid, that makes you the kid’s uncle.”

“I can build an infant Iron Man suit. The child will be well-dressed and protected at all times.” 

“If you build the child a suit, Natasha will murder you.”

“What about Iron Man themed clothing? One-sies,” he exclaimed loudly. “I will find Iron Man themed one-sies.”

“Oh, yippe,” Barton returned in mock excitement. 

“So how does this work, Daddy?” 

“No, no. You don’t call me that ever. Go back to your depleting list of archer nicknames.” 

“Snippy little Robin Hood.” 

“I don’t know how this works. Ideally, we stop being agents and become consultants, I guess. We stay Avengers because how many people can feed seamlessly into that crazy team and deal with the narcissistic asshole that chatters constantly into the comm link?” Stark offered a smirk.

“You love my commentary and you know it.” 

“Maybe we do security consulting instead of missions. Maybe we just do consulting for SHIELD on the missions that others can’t accomplish. Maybe we just live normally and save the world when needed.” 

“You and Romanov, normal? Oh please, Katniss. You wouldn’t know normal it knocked you on your ass. Is she going to keep going on missions until her due date? When is her due date?” 

“I don’t know, Stark. She’s as stubborn as you are. She’ll maim the people who treat her like a fragile object while she’s pregnant though. She hates when people tiptoe around her.”

“Oh yeah, Rogers is going to get forked. We need to replace the steak knives in the kitchen with something less sharp for the time being.” 

“We need to make sure the first aid cabinet is fully stocked with hydrogen peroxide and sterile gauze.” 

“Ain’t that the truth,” Stark agreed while motioning to the bartender for more shots. “Are you keeping track of alcohol?” 

“No, I stopped the tally after the green drinks.”

“Well shit.” 

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••  
“Mr. Stark and Mr. Barton have returned,” JARVIS announced to Pepper and Natasha. “They’re in the elevator.” 

“Reroute them to this floor please,” Pepper declared. She stood from the couch, smoothing her skirt as she did so. Natasha sat on the arm of the couch facing the elevators and controlled her face to hide the smirk that was threatening to show. 

And did you write the book of love? Do you have faith in God above if the Bible tells you so? Barton’s singing voice filtered through the hallway before the elevator doors opened. When Tony continued on with the classic American Pie verse in a rough baritone, Natasha almost laughed, the hidden grin dancing in her eyes. Now do you believe in rock and roll? Can music save your mortal soul? And can you teach me how to dance real slow? When Barton waltzed from the elevator in a flourish of jazz hands, Natasha stifled her laugh behind her hand before schooling her features. Stark grapevined out of the elevator and continued singing. Well, I know that you’re in love with him cause I saw you dancin’ in the gym. You both kicked… “Off… Oh hello, Miss Potts.”

“Tony.” 

“Dance with me.” 

“You’re drunk.” 

“I can dance. Look,” Stark attempted the Macarena. 

“You look like a flailing fish,” Barton commented from where he leaned heavily against the wall. “Hi Tasha.” She nodded at him, no longer trying to hide her amusement. 

“Dance with me,” Stark all but demanded. “JARVIS, play us a jig.” 

“Come on, let’s go to bed, you drunken buffoon,” Pepper chastised as she gripped his waist and led him back to the elevator. “Night guys,” she called over her shoulder. 

“Dance with me,” Barton asked hopefully. 

“I’ve got a better place we can dance,” Natasha teased softly as she passed him. She ambled to the elevator. With a seductive wink over her shoulder, “You coming or not? I’m more than capable of dancing by myself.” The drunken archer practically stumbled over himself to get to her before the elevator door closed.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Despite my wishes, I still own nothing. It depresses me. Though reviews make me happy, so technically you can control my happiness!

"It feels like an elephant sat on my head, Tasha."

"That's what happens when you go drink for drink with Tony Stark. Advil's on the nightstand."

"Soft voice, Tasha. Shh," he shushed, his mumbles muffled in the pillow.

"Come on, carnie. Up you go. Take the Advil. Do you smell something burning?"

"Ten bucks says Thor's back from wherever the hell he was and toasted his stupid PopTarts into oblivion. It really shouldn't be that hard for someone to make PopTarts."

"Last time I checked you burned toast, smart ass."

"Toast is more of a culinary delicacy than PopTart."

"You're full of shit, Barton."

"I want PopTarts now."

"Barton, you're naked."

"Can you be bribed to get me PopTarts?" Natasha raised her eyebrows at her husband's request. "My head hurts, and I want PopTarts with my Advil."

"You are such a baby."

Natasha threw on a robe and went down to the kitchen where she ran into Pepper and Thor. The taller woman walked around barefooted in denim shorts and a large band t-shirt while the demi-god frowned deeply at the toaster. "JARVIS, please make sure Thor doesn't burn this box of PopTarts. I can't stand that crispy smell anymore."

"I'm sorry, Lady Potts. We do not have this technology on Asguard. Good morning, Lady Natasha."

"Hey, Thor. I see Stark has you corralling breakfast as well, Pepper."

"He's a lazy jackass," she grumbled. "How is your drunken idiot?"

"My drunken idiot demands PopTarts."

"Men are great," Pepper replied sarcastically.

"Thank you," Thor accepted cheerfully. Pepper started to explain the sarcasm to the blonde god, but decided against it, opting instead for her cup of coffee. Natasha shook her head as well, her red curls swaying in the process.

"Ms. Romanov, Director Fury for you."

"Oh, swell. This morning actually does get better," Natasha grumbled sarcastically as Pepper laughed at her expense.

"Good luck with that one. Thor, please don't burn down the kitchen. I'm going to feed Stark in the hopes he comes less of a drunken jackass." The tall woman excused herself after a pointed look at the god, who glared ominously at the toaster.

"Fury," the agent addressed as she picked up the closest handset.

"We need you to come in."

"We're on vacation."

"It's urgent."

"I'm not taking the mission in Russia. Sir, I cannot do a multiple year undercover mission."

"That's not why we're calling you. It should be in an in-and-out mission for Agent Barton, Captain Rogers, and yourself. Be on base in an hour." She confirmed, keeping her general unhappiness out of her voice.

"JARVIS, please inform Captain about Fury's request. Enjoy your breakfast, Thor." She nodded to the older man before grabbing two PopTarts and her coffee and retreating to their suite. "We've got to be on base in an hour. Eat up. Don't vomit. Take Advil, and suit up." The archer looked at her with bleak eyes from his prone spot on the bed.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me. Does Fury need a dictionary? Last time I checked 'vacation' meant the stupid bald man goes the fuck away."

"I'm taking a shower. JARVIS is getting Captain put together, and your bumbling ass is my problem apparently. Get moving, Barton." She left him to shower and get ready.

He grumbled as he swung his feet to the ground, bracing his upper body on the mattress behind him. "Mother fuck." He scrubbed a hand over his face. He started to count down to standing. "One, two, two and a quarter… two and a half… two and two thirds… Fuck. Oh god," he moaned as he shuffled to the bathroom to vomit. "This mission is going to be fan-fucking-tastic," he coughed into the bowl. "It's going to be really entertaining to see if I can stand long enough to shoot." He threw up again before dragging himself into the shower as Natasha got out. She rolled her eyes, but said nothing. "Once I can function, I'm going to shoot Stark in the face with an arrow."

After downing a very disgusting hangover remedy created by JARVIS and nearly emptying his stomach again, Barton sat grumpily in the back of a SHIELD vehicle headed towards the nearest base with Captain at the wheel and Natasha in the passenger seat. He made a mental note to ask for the recipe for that hangover cure because ten minutes into the drive, he was already starting to feel like a non-functional pile of limbs and more like a mostly useless human. It's a step in the right direction, he thought to himself grimly.

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Fury threw three matching manila folders across the conference room table to the three people. "There's a gala tonight. In attendance is Nikodim Ioakim, a known arms dealer. We need information on the next weapons hand-off. The Council wants him alive and brought in for further questioning. He likes unavailable women, so Captain, Romanov; congratulations you're a married couple. Flaunt it. Romanov, you get the information and call for extraction when necessary. Barton, watch from the rafters inside the building. Got it? Great."

"Is it best to be in such close proximity to a dangerous man given the current situation?" Captain posed the question, genuinely concerned, but it made Natasha see red.

"And what situation would that be, Captain?" Fury demanded. "From past experience, it is clear that Agent Romanov can handle herself in the most complicated of situations. Is there something I need to know?"

"No, Director," the agent interjected. "I can do my job, Captain," she said, her voice dangerously calm.

"I'm just trying to look out for your well-being, Romanov. Given the circumstances, is it wise for you to be in the field?" When he met Natasha's narrowed, icy glare, the star-spangled superhero paled.

"What the fuck is going on," the Director demanded, his palms slapping the table loudly. Barton barely contained the wince as the loud noise caused his headache to throb mercilessly. He wanted nothing more than to remove his hearing aids and go to sleep. That wasn't in the cards though, and he couldn't help but want to kick Stark in the stomach. "Captain, why is it you think Romanov is not capable of doing her job? Is she slipping in her duties as an agent?" Rogers clenched his jaw and refused to look at the either of his assassin comrades. He could feel Natasha glaring a hole into the side of his head. He doubted even his shield would protect him from her wrath this time. "I asked you a question, Captain. As your superior, I demand an answer."

"Agent Romanov is more than capable of doing her job, sir."

"That's what I thought. Plane leaves in forty minutes. All three of you will need formal, black-and-white-tie attire. Romanov, don't kill him. Dismissed." The Director didn't specify whom she shouldn't kill, but he figured the general directive should keep her teammates alive. He was impressed that Barton hid his hung over well, and Captain seemed to backtrack enough to cover his ass, though he was sure Romanov would snap at both her teammates before the mission was accomplished.

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"Natasha." Captain tried to speak. She sent him a narrowed glare and focused on checking her weapons. "It wasn't my place. I am sorry. I'm just trying to look out for your child."

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before seething, "I am not fragile, and I'm more than capable of doing my job." The agent fell back on her training, eliminating emotion from her train of thought and instead memorized the file meticulously. Barton watched her slip into her role as the Black Widow. When he was sure Captain was engrossed in the file, he nudged her gently with his knee. He was met with the emotionless, calm façade of the Widow. He offered a small, but genuine smile. Her returning nod was almost imperceptible.

Once in the hotel room reserved by SHIELD, the team got ready, each person slipping into his or her formal attire. Rogers adjusted his bowtie and smoothed back his hair. Natasha efficiently knotted Barton's tie before the archer tightened the holster for his back-up weapon on his ankle. In turn, he zipped up his wife's sapphire gown. She checked her own weapon at her ankle as well as the knives held in sheaths between her thighs and breasts. Her red hair was twisted in a loose up-do with few strands dangling to frame her face.

Barton left the room first, checking his comm link subtly as he went. Fifteen minutes later, Rogers and Romanov left as well to join the gala function happening in the ballroom. In the elevator, they checked their comm links. Natasha glared at him furiously before the doors slid open to reveal the overly decorated ballroom. She clutched Roger's forearm, perfectly playing her part of the attentive wife. Captain, for his part, seemed a little uncomfortable. He was a soldier, not a spy. This was not his area of expertise.

"Cap, breathe. You look like a constipated penguin. You've got a pretty lady on your arm; loosen up," Barton instructed over the comm from his perch in the rafters. Years of training and countless missions listening to her partner's commentary in her ear kept Natasha's face clear of any laughter. Mark is at the bar. It looks like he has four guards in the room at 2, 4, 8, and 10, and one on his six. Natasha licked her lips briefly, her sign for understanding.

The couple on the floor worked their way slowly over to the bar, chatting amongst the patrons and blending from one conversation to the next. Natasha played her part exceptionally, clinging to Captain's forearm and leaning into him ever so slightly. Occasionally, she would laugh aloud and lean in to whisper something in his ear, pretending to share a joke or secret. Rogers kept his hand on her back.

"Slide your hand lower, Cap. She's supposed to be your wife, not your elderly grandmother." Rogers coughed a little to cover his discomfort before inching his hand down slowly. "Keep going, Captain. Put your hand on the small of her back. You need to be more convincing. Loosen up."

The band in the far corner started playing a lively tune. "Dance with me," Natasha requested happily, a grin strategically placed. Rogers nodded brusquely. He held her as he would have held a woman in the 1940s, and she almost groaned. Snaking her arms around his neck and pulling him close, she whispered in his ear. "Ioakim's got his eyes on me. When the song ends, excuse yourself." He looked like he was about to argue, but he bit his tongue. He couldn't call the plays here. This wasn't what he was familiar with. This wasn't a firefight. This was a mission for a spy. He needed to play his part because Fury wanted Hawkeye on guard. He had his orders, so when the song ended, he brusquely excused himself, leaving Natasha on the dance floor.

She huffed exasperatedly, easily falling into the role of an unsatisfied wife. She gracefully retreated from the floor to the bar where she smiled sadly at the bartender. She let her Russian accent blend into her English as she ordered a drink. Ioakim leaned over; clearly interested in the character she was playing.

"I see your dance partner abandoned you to dance alone. That is no way to treat a lady."

"My husband, he's very uncomfortable at these kind of events I'm afraid."

"You have a Russian accent. Perhaps from Moscow?"

"Да, да. Я первоначально от Москвы. Себя и?" She responded fluently in Russian, confirming his suspicion of her origins while asking for his own.

"English, Tasha. Captain can't understand Russian," Barton reminded her.

"Мой супруг от Америки. Он не любит когда я говорю русского. Он чувствует из места. Можем мы поговорить в английском вместо? Я не хотел бы сделать его чувствовать больше дискомфортным." Natasha amended her original statement, smiling dejectedly at her mark. "My name is Tatiana."

"What did she say?" Rogers asked through the comm.

"She said my husband is from America. He doesn't like when I speak Russian. He feels out of place. Can we speak English instead? I wouldn't want to make my husband anymore uncomfortable," Barton translated smoothly.

"Nikodim," the mark introduced himself with an offered hand. "You are a very striking woman, Tatiana. I must say, though, you look like someone from my past. I too am from Moscow."

"Ah," she smiled happily. "Red-headed Russian girls are not hard to come by, Nikodim."

"Indeed. The woman to whom you look so familiar is a woman from a lifetime ago. I remember her only in terms of a fire, and it was decades ago. The striking beauty is familiar though. Forgive me for being so rash."

"Thank you for the compliment. I appreciate it kindly. My husband and I have reached what Americans refer to as the seven year itch. Have you heard of it?"

"Yes, dissatisfaction with a current lover causes one or the other to seek other forms of intimacy," Nikodim confirmed. "Are you looking for such intimacy, Tatiana?"

"Perhaps," she flashed a flirty smile over her champagne and raised a seductive eyebrow. "Though that intimacy usually isn't encouraged in such a public place," she mentioned.

"I do know of quieter, more private locations, if that's what you prefer. Shall we go?" He offered her his arm. "Maybe in another location, we can both be more comfortable."

"I do miss speaking Russian," she pretended to confide in him. "My husband knows very few phrases, and while he tries, the language does not have the same comforting effect when the conversation is so stilted and terse." Nikodim nodded his understanding while leading her to a side elevator.

"Tell me, Tatiana. Are you a soundless lover?"

"There are very few things I do quietly. Then again, we aren't known for being a particularly quiet ethnicity, are we?" Nikodim laughed and pressed her against his body, waiting for the elevator to reach their destination.

"A very true statement. Another question, do you mumble in Russian in the throes of passion?"

"Not with my husband, I don't. He's not a very attentive lover though, too self-absorbed to focus on my pleasure. Will you be different Nikodim? If so, you may be able to pull a few Russian phrases out of me."

"Я всегда вверх для возможности," he responded as he led her down a hallway, waving off the guards.

"I am always up for a challenge," Barton translated for Rogers. "In addition, I would like to shoot this jackass. I don't care what the mission parameters say. He's so full of shit." Rogers snickered in response, but said nothing.

"Before we start the challenge, how about another drink," Natasha suggested. When he turned, she removed a tiny vile from her cleavage before pouring into his glass. The serum mixed with the bubbly champagne and blended with the drink almost immediately. "Cheers," she said excitedly with a clink of her glass. She sipped her glass politely as her companion took a large gulp. "I have a better idea for this champagne," she insinuated as she glanced down at her dress. "I've always tried to get my husband to be more adventurous in bed, and you said you were up for the challenge."

"Indeed, a challenge is always exciting." He downed his champagne, reaching for her hips as he placed the empty glass on the table. The mark kissed her fully; she kept her lips closed, but started walking him slowly back to the bed, removing his tie as she moved. He pulled away and looked at her with dazed eyes. She flashed him a flirty smile before dipping her head to kiss his neck. She pushed him onto the bed and excused herself to the restroom. When she returned to the room, the serum had done its job.

"He's out. Fourteenth floor, Room 31," she instructed her teammates. "He sent his guards away. Where I don't know, but keep an eye out. I'm calling for an extraction." As she set about the room securing the mark with slip ties, she found his phone and forwarded the appropriate messages to SHIELD. "We need to be on the roof in ten."

"Captain, you have the pleasure of carrying him to the roof," Barton declared as he made his way to the room. The comm link transmitted some grumbling, but Rogers didn't decline, throwing the unconscious man over his shoulders like nothing more than a sack of potatoes. "If you happen to knock his head on the door frame, I would be much obliged," Barton called after him.

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"That was boring. Why did Fury need us for that," Barton grumbled from his seat on the jet. "I didn't even get to loose an arrow." Romanov fixed him with a look that clearly said stop-acting-like-a-child. He shot her a toothy grin and continued his list of complaints. "You make a very uncomfortable looking husband, Rogers."

"Undercover really isn't my strong suit. I'm more of a firefight person myself."

"You and me both. Can that even be deemed a mission? It was more like a carpool. What sort of arms dealer isn't overtly paranoid and cautious? He's an idiot."

"He seemed to recognize you there for a second," Captain noted, his statement geared toward Romanov. She arched her eyebrows, saying nothing. "Is it possible you met him and have forgotten his face?" Captain continued to push. She blinked slowly.

"No."

"Are there really that many Russian women with red hair? Your file mentions fires. It seemed coincidental." Romanov's head snapped to her left, fixing Captain with yet another death glare.

"You read my file," she stated, anger starting to tint the edges of her statement.

"Stark produced the files of all the Avengers. Was I not authorized to see it?"

"No."

"Tasha," Barton interrupted. "He meant no harm. He was just pointing out the coincidence." He knew by his partner's tone that Captain was two badly worded sentences away from being seriously injured, superhero or not. Her training easily hid her anger and frustration behind a veil of emotionless calm. She sat in silence for the rest of the flight, ignoring the conversational advances of both men.

Once in debriefing, she maintained her professional attitude. Falling back on her training, she focused on finishing the mission and ignoring the concerned glances Barton kept shooting her way as well as Roger's apologetic smiles. When Fury mentioned her pregnancy, she was hurtled back into reality. She barely avoided making a very undignified noise in her surprise.

"Rogers, are you convinced Agent Romanov can do her job despite her pregnancy? I will not take one of my best agents off of missions until absolutely necessary."

"Sir," Captain sputtered. "I never thought she could not complete missions, sir. I value her highly as a teammate and an agent. As a friend, I am worried for the health of the baby. I'm not sure if it's wise to put such an innocent life in so many dangerous situations." Captain's admission made her clench her fists under her desk.

"You know," Barton inquired, confusion etched in his brow as he looked around the table.

"I am the Director of SHIELD, Agent Barton, or did you forget that fact?"

"Right," the archer mumbled. "You don't seem particularly upset," he said, simply because the entire scenario was kind of anti-climactic considering how much yelling he had imagined in his head.

"I'm not particularly excited to have your offspring turning my base into a playground nor am I particularly happy to have my best agents on maternity or paternity leave for an extended period of time. That being said, this is not the Soviet Union. You are allowed to marry. You are allowed to have families. You are in control of your own lives. If you want to reproduce little demon archer ninjas, that's entirely your choice. I prefer you leave the child corralled at Avengers Tower if for no other reason that to irk Stark."

"Okay," Barton drawled slowly. "So you're saying," he paused and couldn't find the words to finish his statement.

"I'm saying congratulations, Agents Barton and Romanov. We will discuss maternity leave when you get closer to your due date. As for missions until then, the choice is yours, Agent Romanov."

"Is that safe," Captain questioned from his spot. "I don't mean to be impolite, but Natasha is mortal. Her uniform doesn't provide the most protection from bullets or blades. Is it safe for the baby to be in mission conditions? Is it safe for a pregnant woman to be in such conditions? I'm worried it could be too much stress on her body- pregnancy with its hormonal fluctuations and mission pressures." Barton almost reached over to cover Roger's mouth before he dug himself into a deeper hole. "Shouldn't we be handling this situation with more care and delicacy?" That did it. Barton could see her losing the control over her anger.

"We'll instruct Stark to start working on a bulletproof version of her current cat suit. Will that make you feel more secure about having her in a mission environment? Though keep in mind, Captain, this is her decision and not yours. We are only having this conversation because you are the team leader and I share some of your concerns, though I know Agent Romanov is more than capable of protecting herself and her child."

Natasha stood up suddenly and stormed out of the debriefing room. "Oh boy," Barton groaned when the door closed. "Rogers, I wouldn't sleep much tonight if I were you. She just might kill you."

"I didn't mean it in a condescending way. She is more than qualified in the field and a great teammate on missions. I'm just worried about the baby."

"The more you say that, Captain, the more it sounds like you think she's not taking the baby into consideration. It's a new situation, yes, but even before, she doesn't do anything recklessly. She analyzes each condition and determines the best course of action. Her training allows her to do that in a split second. It doesn't mean she's reckless or not taking into account the gravity of the situation, just that she doesn't need the time to formulate a plan and make a decision in the same amount of time others need." Clint tried to explain. "We know you're worried. We're a team. It's important to look out for one another, but can I encourage you to find a different way to voice your concerns? Bringing them up in a mission debriefing probably just rubbed salt in the wound." He could see the realization slowly dawn upon the other man, and he understood how badly he felt. Captain knew how private Natasha was, and he just unearthed his worries about her pregnancy in front of her boss.

"Oh no," he mumbled remorsefully.

"Good luck, gentlemen. You're dismissed. Barton, enjoy the rest of your vacation." The two men left the conference room to find a vehicle to return them to Avengers Tower. The archer pulled at his tie, unbutton the top few buttons of the starched white oxford shirt of his tux. He really wanted to tell Fury that Natasha was equally as pissed at him for discussing his concerns with Captain in front of her as if she wasn't in the room or privy to the conversation. He bit his tongue and kept walking. He could feel the anger radiating off of her in waves from wherever she was. He would bet a new bow that she had locked herself away in the training facility at the tower doing merciless combinations on a punching bag.

"I am sorry. When the Director mentioned her pregnancy, I forgot we were there in such a professional capacity. I see him as a friend occasionally, and I forgot we were not in that context."

"I know, Captain. I do. I get it. I understand why you're worried. She's my wife and it's my child. I trust her not to run head first into a dangerous situation without considering the life she carries. I also trust her decision if she decides to take on that situation. She is more than capable of protecting herself. She can hold her own. She always has."

"I know that, Barton. I'm just saying we can't always control the situation. Sometimes, missions just go to hell in the blink of an eye. I would feel endlessly guilty if she were to be injured in such a way that the baby is jeopardized under my command."

"We're assassins. We know the risks we take every time we suit up. The job defines us. This is what we were each trained to do. Having a child doesn't change the fact that we'll still do these jobs. It just means we'll have something more to look forward to when we come home. We all will. We're not moving out of Avengers Tower. This baby is going to grow up around family."

"If Natasha still considers me family after I betrayed her," Captain mumbled dejectedly.

"Give her time. Let her beat out most of her frustration on the punching bag before you talk to her, but you should talk to her, Cap. She won't cut you out of the baby's life. She does care about you. She wants this child to be safe, to be loved; we both do," Barton confided as they drove through darkened Manhattan streets. He was trying to reassure the other man that one mistake wouldn't put him on the outs with the growing family. "She knows you are worried about your future nephew or niece. She also knows you care about the child, and that means more than you know. Just talk to her. You may want to talk to Thor too. Give him a heads up that treating her with kid gloves will get him stabbed with a fork."

"She really likes to throw cutlery at unsuspecting people enjoying their breakfasts," Captain laughed.

"You? Unsuspecting? You're a superhero living with two other super heroes, a demi-god, and two resident assassins. You should be prepared for a lot more than flying cutlery. Plus you're practically immortal. You can't say you're scared of a fork."

"Wrong, Barton. Very wrong. When an irate Natasha is the one behind the fork, I'm scared of the silverware. I've seen her take down too many enemies with a throwing star or blade. I have a healthy appreciation of her aim as long as I'm not the one at the business end of any of her weapons, kitchen cutlery included." Barton's deep laughter filled the car as a quick retina scan let him into the garage of Avengers Tower. "So I should wait to talk to her then? Maybe tomorrow?"

"Well, I would bet money that not only is she destroying your hoard of punching bags downstairs but she's also fully armed. She'll shoot you if you talk to her now, not fatally because ultimately she's grown fond of you, but still, she'll shoot you nevertheless."

"Ah, I will approach her at another time when she doesn't have numerous loaded guns strapped to her person. Thank you for the insight, Clint," he said appreciatively as he stepped from the car and into the waiting elevator. The archer gave him a nod before heading to the stairs to find his partner.

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Glancing at his watch, he figured it was going to be a long night, and yet he still wanted to kill Stark as he could feel the remnants of his hangover floating around him. It took him five minutes to pick the electronic lock on the door to the training facility. When it finally slid open, he stepped inside quietly, opting to perch on a table close by to watch before interrupting her. Given the sheen already coating her body, he figured she broke every speed limit in getting home and was pushing herself considerably hard for a nighttime exercise bout.

Forty-five minutes passed quickly as Barton continued to analyze the fluidity of her moves as well as her maintained intensity. When he could see her muscles quaking gently, he slid off the table and walked towards her, his dress shoes making a new sound against the matted floor. "Tasha, let's go upstairs," he tried to coax her away from the bag.

"I'm fine, Barton. Go back to watching quietly or leave."

"Natasha," he sighed. "Look at your hands."

"Really, you're going to pull me away because I bloodied up my knuckles. You're just as bad as they are."

"No, I'm not pulling you out because you bloodied your knuckles. I'm pulling you out because your muscles are quivering in the tell tale way that says you're done for the day unless you want to pass out from exhaustion. Come on. I'll give you a massage," he encouraged.

"Barton, I am fine. I'm going to finish my workout. I'll be up in a bit. I'm sure you want to get out of your tux and go to bed. Your hangover is still bothering your head."

"I'll wait." He didn't move from where he was standing. He watched her carefully. Her swings started to get wild, more and more of her frustration controlling the punches as opposed to her control. Her form was still impeccable, and most would not have been able to notice the slight change in her fighting as her muscles trembled with exhaustion and her anger kept her driving on. Having been her partner for ten years, he could read her body like a book whether she wanted him to or not. He was as observant as she was, and they knew each other too well.

After a particularly intense combination, she stopped, gripping the bag for support. Her shoulders quaked and her thighs trembled. She took deep breaths, stabilizing herself and finding her center of balance again, before stepping back just slightly and back into fighting stance. Before she could start the next sequence, Clint reached out to put a comforting hand on her shoulder. She turned and swung at him. He easily caught her punch, holding her wrist and bringing her to him. Her name tumbled from his lips in a request full of concern and love. As she noticed her hand shaking in his loose grasp, she nodded. Leaning a good amount of her body weight onto him, he led her into the elevator, glad to have the chance to help his usually stubborn and overly independent wife.

After a quick shower and freshly bandaged knuckles, the two lay in bed quietly watching the sunrise.

"Do you realize," she mumbled against his chest, "that our sleep schedule is going to get even more screwed up than it already is when we have this baby?"

"Sleep has already become a figment of my imagination. How could it possibly get worse?" She rolled her eyes at him softly, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips as he continued his sarcastic train of thought. "I mean think about it. This bed and I, we are perfect for each other. It understands me and fits to my body and is oh so comfortable," he crooned happily. "This bed and I should be together forever. It would be the perfect love affair. Then the phone rings. The phone doesn't want the bed and I to be together. The phone's a jealous whore," he stated very seriously. "So the bed and I have fleeting affairs always interrupted by the phone's shrill jealousy. It envies our love. How can it possibly get any worse?"

"Well, from what I've heard, babies tend to cry. A lot. Your so-called fleeting affairs with the mattress…" She paused to mock him mid sentence. "By the way, you're an idiot. Anyway, your so-called fleeting affair will be interrupted nightly, probably hourly, by the lovely sounds of an infant wailing for food or whatever."

"Great. I love loud noises when I'm sleeping. It's comforting like I'm sleeping in a war-zone. It's exactly what I want my time at home to be like."

"Tasha," he murmured moments later as she was just on the cusp of sleep. "We should probably invest in some baby books." She nodded against his chest, not really hearing the idea, only agreeing because it was the fastest way to silence him. "Love you," he whispered into her hair before finally drifting off himself.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I still own nothing. I'm just playing around with Marvel's characters for a while. No infringement intended.

It was a fairly common occurrence. Tony and all of his genius ideas usually involved something blowing up and one of his robots repeatedly using a fire extinguisher on the crisped billionaire. Tony loved to play science with Banner, and that ended in a loud kaboom nine times out of ten. When the explosive sounds from an experiment gone wrong were heard in the common room, Pepper turned a violent shade of red. "God damnit," she shouted. "I just had to convince the city not to evict him because all of his experimental testing. For the love of God, that man, he's going to be the death of me." Natasha offered a sympathetic smile from her over-sized armchair. Pepper continued to grumble but stayed seated. She planned to give Tony an earful later.

Natasha continued to focus on pages of her pregnancy book, occasionally grimacing at descriptions incorporated about giving birth and the fabulous nine months prior to the arrival of the baby. "I'm still pissed I can't drink vodka and I have to monitor my caffeine intake," she grumbled. Pepper smirked at her and sent her a disbelieving look. "Yeah, I know. I know. I don't know how I'm going to survive when I cut back on the caffeine."

"The guys are going to be at the receiving end of a lot of injuries," Pepper mused. When the floor shook again, the taller woman threw her book down on the couch. "For the love of God, again!"

"That one was different," she mused. "JARVIS," Natasha called, "was that a sonic arrow?" The AI confirmed affirmatively and that sent the assassin reeling towards the elevator. "Son of a bitch, I'll kill him."

"We are killing them, yes?" Pepper asked as she followed by the redheaded agent.

When the elevator doors slid open, Pepper took in the damage to the lab. The glass tables had shattered. A few of the cars in the adjacent garage sported cracks in the windshields and windows. The three men had on what looked to be large headphones. Tony rubbed the back of his head sheepishly as he turned slowly in a circle, surveying the damage. Banner focused on his heart monitor and trying to calm his pulse. Barton slipped the headphones off before sliding his hearing aids out and throwing them on the closest non-glass counter. By the time Pepper had looked at everything and mentally calculated the sum of money it would take to fix this particular level of the lab, Natasha was fuming. The agent had her hands posed on her hips as she fixed Barton with a withering glare.

"Oh look. Agent Mommy, did your pregnancy book teach you that? Because, darling, you've perfected the 'mom' stance," Stark teased. Banner elbowed him with a quick silencing look. "Did we interrupt girl time? Painting each others nails and naked pillow fights?" When neither woman immediately started yelling, Stark met each of their gazes worriedly. "JARVIS, what's today's date?"

"July 3, sir."

"Is there a certain symbol marked on the calendar for today's date," Stark asked nervously. When the AI responded affirmatively, the billionaire blanched. He swallowed deeply. "We'll clean it up right now, honey. We're sorry for the disruption. JARVIS, can you make two appointments at the spa? Have Happy drive the ladies. We'll have it all cleaned before you get back," he promised, trying to usher them back into the elevator. The genius had enough sense not to touch Natasha, but he placed a soothing hand on Pepper's back and guided her to the elevator.

"Fix it," she growled. "I just finished convincing the city council that you aren't an annoying asshole of a nuisance. Do you know how much effort went into those negotiations, Tony? Do you know? The city doesn't take too fondly to a lunatic consistently blowing things up with no concern for others!"

"Sonic arrows," Natasha snarled. "Ask that dumb shit how he lost his hearing in the first place." Stark looked panicked as he put two-and-two together. The agent still wore a deadly look on her face. Behind the genius, Barton's eyes widened as he paled slightly.

When the elevator doors closed whisking the women away to the lobby where a car waited to take them to a relaxing spa far away from Avengers Tower, Stark turned around. "It's Satan's trifecta!"

"What are you talking about," Banner asked, already locating a broom to start sweeping up shards of glass.

"Symbol on a calendar," Barton muttered to himself. "That symbol doesn't happen to be a small red circle, does it?" Stark nodded grimly. "Well fuck. Shouldn't you know not to blow shit up when your girlfriend is on her period?"

"Again, what is Satan's trifecta," Banner repeated.

"The women in the tower are all experiencing randomized hormonal shifts," Barton explained tactfully.

"Stop beating around the bush. This is hell. Pepper is on her period, and because of his stupid swimmers, Spidey is pregnant. In other words, all of us are dead."

"You know a trifecta is the combination of three things, yes? Last I checked there were two women in this house."

"You just wait. One of them will scream at you for doing something you didn't even realize you were doing. When you become a victim of one their hormonal time bombs, you will understand why one of them counts at least twice. I mean Romanov is pregnant. That counts double. Normal pregnant women are terribly unstable. Romanov… well, she's far from normal. She willingly married that idiot," Stark pointed at Barton as if that was explanation in and of itself.

"Hey, don't you have a lab to be fixing, asshat?" Barton retorted throwing him the phone to call the clean-up crew.

"Don't start with me. I'm about to be at the deadly end of your wife's thigh choke because you didn't tell me that sonic arrows are a no-no to play with!"

"Sonic arrows are always a no-no to play with," Banner interjected with a roll of his eyes. "Always, Stark. Always a no-no."

"I'm just saying, Hawk Boy could have given us a heads-up that Spidey would kill us if she knew we were playing with sonic arrow tips to add to his quiver."

"Yeah, don't tell her we're adding them to my quiver. She'll actually kill all of us."

"I doubt anyone would blame her," Banner commented thoughtfully.

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When Pepper walked back into the tower, she was feeling much more relaxed. Her massage left her feeling quite happy. She wanted to hang on to that feeling of bliss as long as possible, so she avoided any of the lab floors like the plague. There was a vase of flowers sitting on the desk of her office with a box of chocolate. "There is always this benefit of Tony Stark keeping track of my cycle," she mused to herself as she snatched one from the box. She changed clothes before heading back down to the common area to finish her book.

"Hey Pepper," Barton greeted as she walked in. "Is Natasha back too?"

"She didn't stay at the spa. She went somewhere to blow off some steam. I'm assuming her version of blowing off steam includes guns and hand-to-hand combat, so I decided to stick with my spa appointments. She isn't exactly happy with you."

"She said that," he asked dumbfounded.

"Not in so many words. I don't have to tell you that she's a tightlipped person. Let me tell you a story, Clint. After we got Tony back, he worked on that suit constantly. He nearly blew himself up numerous times. That whole situation is part of the reason we have an on-call medical team. He couldn't understand why I was so upset. That suit reminded me of where he had been, what had happened to him, what he lost. For the three months he was held hostage, I cried for him. I wanted him back. That suit reminded me of the pain I felt for his loss. Now, a lot of good has come from that suit, it's not associated with so many bad memories, but still, there are days when he's down there blowing stuff up that I remember how close I came to losing him. Give her some time, and remember she can't kill you. She wants your child to have a father."

"Well fuck," he mumbled for the second time that day as Pepper took her tea and retreated to the couch to relocate her book.

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When he walked into their suite hours later, he crawled onto the bed and promptly fell asleep sprawled across it. He completed his usual training routine and then some after he left Pepper in the common room. His muscles screamed at him unhappily. His body had been far past the point of "enjoying the burn" when he gave in and stumbled through the tower. When he felt her hands running through his hair, he caught her hand and pressed a sweet kiss to the inside of her wrist. "Tasha," he murmured sleepily.

"Come on. You need a shower. Then you can go back to bed and actually sleep in it like a normal person." He grumbled but shuffled gracelessly towards the bathroom. She flipped on the water as he stripped. The idea of a shower seemed better when it looked like he was getting to shower with her, but she ushered him inside and then walked back to the bedroom. His military training kicked in as four minutes later, despite sleep bleeding into the edges of consciousness, he finished toweling off. She tossed a pair of boxers at his head as he switched off the light. Haphazardly stepping into them and situating them on his hips, he fell back clumsily on the bed in a similar position to the one she had originally found him in. "You can't form your little nest of sheets and pillows if you're on top of the covers."

He grinned at her drowsily. "You're pretty."

"You can't cuddle if you're not under the covers, idiot." She explained though there was clearly a smile in her voice.

"I do not cuddle," he quickly objected.

"Oh really? So when you try and turn me into a giant teddy bear, what is it you're doing?"

"I'm," he paused as he tried to come up with something that sounded more manly than cuddling. "I'm protectively transferring bodily heat. I'm keeping you warm," he reasoned.

"Yes, because we're in such a danger of freezing to death here in our warm suite in Avengers Tower. Try again."

"I'm a man, Tasha. I do not cuddle."

"Is snuggle a more masculine verb then?"

"Shut up," he snorted as he wiggled himself around until he was under the covers. They both knew that no matter what word they called it, Barton would wake up with his body haphazardly across hers. They both knew the other felt comforted by the habit, even if neither would admit it. "Go to sleep, Tasha," he mumbled as he pulled her closer.

"Night, snuggle bunny." She mocked with a teasing smirk, as she situated her body against his.

"No," he declared vehemently as he draped his arm protectively over her stomach, closing all the gaps between their spooning bodies. "No. If I can't call you dumpling, you can't call me snuggle bunny."

"Ha," she laughed. "Go to sleep, Snuggle Bunny."

"Love you Dumpling," he whispered against her shoulder as he drifted off into sleep, barely feeling the elbow she sent flying into his stomach.

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(8 and ½ months later)

"Are you out of your ever loving mind?"

"Why does the cradle need legs," he rebutted.

"Why does the cradle need legs," Natasha mocked. "The cradle needs legs because without legs, it's a hanging death trap. I'm not putting our baby in a bag that hangs from the ceiling!"

"It's like a hammock. It's not a bag!"

"If it looks like a duck and talks like a duck, it's a duck!" she retorted. "Build the damn cradle, Clint."

"Cradles don't talk! Your metaphor doesn't make sense," he yelled after her as the door to the nursery closed. "I'm going to pay for that one later," he grumbled to himself as he collapsed on the floor in a pile of loose screws and wood pieces.

When the door opened again, he almost ducked for cover thinking his pregnant wife was back to strangle him with the hammock he wanted to hang. "We are here to help you construct the nursery," Thor boomed happily.

"What he means is those of who can wield tools without destroying things are here to help you build the nursery," Captain clarified at Barton's skeptical look. Thor looked crestfallen. "Here, Thor. You can fold clothes. You can't break clothes. I take that back," he continued immediately. "If you try your hardest, you won't break the clothes. Banner will help you with the crib. I will do the changing table, and Stark will put together the rocking chair." The superhero called out the plays like they were at war.

Stark moaned. "Why can't I just buy all the furniture already put together? This is boring. I could be building the baby a miniature robot suit."

"What did we say about making a mini-Iron Man suit for the assassins' infant?" Banner prompted.

"That I'm not allowed to. You take the fun out of everything," Stark rebutted with a juvenile pout.

"Is your child meant to be this small," Thor questioned, holding up a onesie in a fist. "This tunic is smaller than my hand."

"Human children are typically small," Captain nodded with a smile.

"I was thinking of baby names," Stark interrupted. "Anthony if it's a boy and Antonia if it's a girl."

"For the last time, they are not naming their child after you. Right," Captain asked for confirmation hopefully.

"Trust me, Cap. I refuse to have a son named Tony."

"See, he didn't reject the female version! It's still on the table," Stark cheered excitedly.

"Build the damn rocking chair. Antonia is not on the table for a girl's name either," Barton silenced the eccentric older man.

"So what are you thinking for names? I mean the baby's right around the corner," Banner stated.

"We haven't really talked about it."

"She threatened me with a nipple. I thought it would be a great way to die until I figured out she wasn't talking about her nipples but nipples for the baby bottle," Stark grumbled.

"Touch my wife's nipples and you will become the latest target practice for my exploding arrow heads," Barton threatened.

"What did you do to make her threaten you with nipples," Banner asked curiously. "It's creative which means whatever you did must just be fodder for entertainment."

"Can we please stop saying the word nipple in passing conversation like it's normal," Captain pleaded, his face a brilliant red.

"What is a baby bottle nipple," Thor wondered aloud. "On Asgard, the women breastfeed their young. There are no bottles for the young. Nipples, yes, but no bottle nipples.

"I asked her if she was planning on breastfeeding. I suggested she could walk around topless if that would make her more comfortable. I really had her best interests at heart," Tony explained. "No, Captain, it's the 21st century. Nipples are part of everyday conversations. Vaginas are too."

"Stark, stop it. He's going to burst a blood vessel. We just got him to stop referring to sex as fondue. You're going to make him regress," Banner chided as if he was talking to a petulant child.

"We have vaginas and nipples on Asgard," Thor confirmed. Barton laughed aloud as Rogers face turned a more violent shade of red.

"New topic," Banner declared. "Anything else. Literally any other topic will suffice."

"Do you not like nipples," Stark asked. "You're a red-blooded male. You should have a healthy appreciation for a woman's figure."

"I'm with Banner. Any other topic imaginable will do," Captain practically begged from where he sat cowering behind the changing table box. "What else do you need to buy before the baby arrives?"

Barton decided to take pity on his overly embarrassed friend and pulled a crumpled list out of his pocket. He looked as if he was going to start reading it aloud, but tossed it towards the captain instead. "The better question is what don't I need to buy before the baby arrives."

"I have an idea," Stark proclaimed.

"No you don't. Sit down," Banner interrupted.

"It's a good idea," the genius defended.

"I highly doubt that," Captain countered.

"Have I told you every single one of you sucks?"

"Today? No. This week, about forty six times. Build the rocking chair," Banner instructed motioning with his screwdriver towards the still dismantled pieces of wood.

"My idea is good. Shut up and listen. Barton and I will go get everything on the list. We can leave the prudes to build the furniture." Stark finished explaining and looked smug. Captain raised his eyebrows in contemplation while sharing a look with Banner and Barton.

"What am I to do," Thor asked hopefully. "I can construct something," he insisted. "I will not break anything."

"There is a bookshelf and a toy chest that need to be put together," Barton mused. "Break them and Natasha will maim you." Thor clapped happily as he moved over to the two sealed boxes. "Let's go, Stark. I'm driving."

"It was my idea," Stark whined. "I get to drive," he declared petulantly.

"Stop bickering or one of your women will swoop in and hit you both," Banner reminded them with a teasing smirk as they left the room. "And now we can have an actual conversation and get these things built in a timely manner," he concluded happily.

"Thank goodness," Captain sighed in relief.

"I can make PopTarts," Thor exclaimed before running from the room to make snacks.

Banner couldn't help but laugh. Soon Captain had joined in on the laughter. "Oh my god, this child is going to grow up in a legitimate world of crazy."

"Just wait until Stark has one. Then it's just going to be worse. You know how Barton and Stark bicker. Imagine how it's going to be when it's their children bickering."

"I'm actually equal parts terrified and excited to see that."

"We've saved the world, and we're scared of the children to come," Captain mused humorously.

"And rightfully so. It's logical to be fearful when we know the parents as well as we do," Banner explained. "A few more weeks and we'll have a pint sized Black Widow wailing through the tower." He paused for a second. "Remind me to ask Stark about getting the sound proofing updated."


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I still own nothing. I’m just playing around with Marvel’s characters for a while. No infringement intended. 

“Oh my god,” Stark bumbled. “Oh my god,” he repeated, dropping his head to his hands. “Oh my god.”

“Find a different phrase,” Pepper encouraged. 

“Use that big genius brain of yours and come up with something besides ‘oh my god,’” Natasha mocked. 

“That is going to come out of you,” Steve shrieked. 

“I’m scarred for life,” Stark continued to whine. “Why? Why would you make me watch a video about giving birth? What did I ever do to you?” 

“Would you like the consolidated summary or the itemized list?” Natasha rebutted easily, her arms crossed over her chest and rested on her obviously pregnant stomach.

“I never… But… I… I hate you,” Stark conceded. 

“Trust me. The feeling is mutual,” the redheaded agent smirked. “Now, would you like to revisit the topic of painkillers during labor?” 

“No,” both men amended, violently shaking their hands. 

“Good boys. And why do you not get a say in my medication preferences concerning the birth of my child?” Natasha prompted as Pepper snickered, clearly enjoying the situation. 

“No uterus, no opinion.” Stark repeated the phrase the agent had screamed at him the night before. Steve blushed furiously at the mention of Natasha’s uterus. 

“I’m never going to have sex,” Steve muttered. “It’s not worth it.” Pepper couldn’t help but laugh. She quickly covered her mouth and pretended she was coughing. “That looks so painful.” 

“And that is why I will be having a fantastic amount of painkillers,” Natasha interjected. 

“I can’t get those images out of my mind. They’re there every time I blink. Pepper, make it stop,” Stark groaned, dropping his head onto her shoulder dramatically. “You, madam, are the very definition of evil,” he directed towards Natasha. 

“Why thank you. That’s the nicest thing you have ever said to me,” she responded as she laid on the charm, drawing on a heavy Southern belle accent she learned out of necessity for an undercover mission years back. “You ready to go, Pepper?”    
“Go? You’re taking her? You can’t have her. She’s mine. Mine,” Stark repeated. “She has to nurse me back to health after your mental and emotional trauma.” 

“Would you like to come with us? We’re going to buy more things for the baby,” Pepper informed him. 

“But,” he stuttered. “Barton and I bought the whole damn Babies ‘R Us store a week ago. What else could we possibly need?”    
“We don’t need anything. We,” Pepper stressed, “are not having a baby. Yet,” she amended. Tony blanched and quickly shut up. 

“Have fun, dear,” he muttered as he kissed her offered cheek. 

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“So which do you think it is?” Pepper asked as she pushed a cart through aisles of Babies ‘R Us. The two women spent the first forty minutes of their shopping trip returning many of the items purchased previously by their significant others. She met Natasha’s questioning eyebrow and clarified. “Do you think you’re having a boy or a girl?”

“I honestly don’t have a clue.” 

“Do you prefer one or the other? Does Clint?”    
“I am going to be hopelessly overwhelmed whether this is a boy or a girl. Clint is excited regardless. The man cannot contain his joy.” 

“Oh, yes. The whole tower has heard him singing,” Pepper laughed. “He’s got a good voice. He might need to learn some more kid-friendly songs though. 90s Nelly doesn’t scream lullabies, though some of the 60s classic stuff he sings could work.” 

Natasha laughed at Pepper’s analysis. “The man only has one volume when he sings.”

“It seems like he only has one volume for most things. They’re putting new sound proofing in your apartment by the way. Something about a new crying baby, Clint’s penchant for karaoke, and generally loud assassin sex.” 

“Probably a good thing,” she agreed. Natasha tried to look embarrassed, but she ended up smirking knowingly. “What do you think about this stroller?” 

“It’s better than the one the boys picked out.”

“The one they picked out looked like a death contraption. It looks like this one can be a stroller, car seat, and a bassinet.” 

“Oh,” Pepper exclaimed. “That stroller matches the colors for the nursery!” 

“Turquoise or gray,” Natasha asked from further down the aisle where she was looking at other types of carriers. 

“Gray, and it looks like they have a turquoise lining for it as well.” 

Their shopping trip continued in much the same fashion. A good two hours later, Happy helped them unload all of the bags from the car. Natasha dropped all the bags haphazardly on the floor of the nursery before she shuffled back to the couch, where she collapsed into the oversized cushions gratefully.   
“Hey babe,” Clint called from the office. 

“Just because I can’t see my thighs with our child in the way doesn’t mean I won’t strangle you with them, Barton.” 

“I was just trying it on for size,” he explained kindly with a wide smile as he came into the living room. 

“Well, if it didn’t fit before pregnancy, it sure as hell isn’t going to fit now when I have 35 extra pounds of lovely weight attached to my midsection. How was your day?”

“I worked on a consult for a something or other in some country.”   “I hope your report was more specific than something in some place,” she teased. “You get it finished?”   
“Almost. I’ve got to finish the thing for the other one. I have a greater appreciation for all the paperwork Coulson was always bitching about.”

“You and me both. I was thinking,” she paused. “If we have a boy, what about Phillip?” 

Clint looked taken aback. He swallowed deeply before leaning forward to cradle her face in his hands. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she encouraged. “What do you think?”   
“I think it’s perfect, Tasha. Thank you.” 

She flashed him a rare smile before kissing him. “He gave you a second chance. You gave me a second chance. Time to pay it forward.” She kissed him again. “Now, go finish the thing about the something that it’s in some country that you obviously aren’t paying any attention to, so Fury isn’t calling us at the ass crack of dawn.”

“You, Natasha Romanov, terrified the old man the last time he called at the ass crack of dawn. I think he might have reconsidered those diapers he refuses to let the junior agents wear. You may have scared him just enough to make him piss himself, and you have no idea how much I would have given to have seen the look on his face.” 

“In my defense, he shouldn’t be calling a heavily pregnant woman before 9 AM. Before 6 AM is just a recipe for disaster. Thus, it is his own fault that he was at the receiving end of my wrath. If I had been within range, it’s likely he would need two eye patches instead of one.”

“Performing thigh chokes while pregnant is an action that is frowned upon according to your doctor.” 

“When was the last time you saw me take out an enemy’s eye with a thigh choke?” 

“Throughout our partnership, Tasha, I’ve learned never to underestimate your ability to maim the other side.” She laughed before she nudged him off the couch and pointed to the office.

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When the phone in their apartment rang loudly, Natasha let out a very long string of colorful cusswords as Clint burrowed under his nest of pillows.   
“What the fuck do you want?”    
“Agent Romanoff,” Fury started. “Good morning.”

“What the fuck do you want,” she repeated. “Do you know what time it is? Is the clock on the side of your body that you can’t see, Director? Why do you always insist on calling me at the ass crack of fucking dawn? Do you know I’m pregnant? Do you know how little sleep I get already? Do you know how difficult it is to ever get comfortable with the equivalent of a fucking pumpkin strapped to your stomach? Do you know how remarkably irritating it is to have to listen to your voice of all voices at 4:27 AM?”

“Tasha, give me the phone before he puts you on eternal maternity leave and you never get to go on a mission again,” he grumbled, his voice muted somewhat by the pillow still covering his face. Taking a chance with his hand, he grabbed the phone from his ranting, angry wife. “Morning, Director. What can I do for you?”

“I have an urgent assignment for you that requires your long distance marksmanship.”

“Duration?”   
“Mission brief says three days. Base in an hour,” Fury instructed before hanging up.

“Duty calls. I’ll be back. I love you, Tash.” He crawled gracelessly out of his makeshift nest and kissed the red head before slipping from the bed. 

“Love you too,” she mumbled as she rearranged herself in his nest. She would never verbally admit it to anyone ever, but she felt comfortable and safe surrounded by the odd jumble of pillows, blankets, and sheets. She inhaled deeply, breathing in his scent. She was asleep before he left, giving her a quick kiss on her forehead before fumbling through the dark apartment to his car. 

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“Surveillance, termination, and get out,” Barton repeated as Hill gave him a hearty slap on the back as she ushered him onto the Quinjet. 

“Seriously, though. Get in and get out; no ridiculous complications that you two are so found of. That includes no hostage situations; no explosions of any sort, no all-out firefights, no zip lining off buildings. No crazy shit, Barton. In and out. If you miss Romanov’s due date, she will butcher every single one of us. I’m too young to die,” she joked. 

“Trust me. If I miss her due date, she’ll be so busy killing me and reincarnating me in a fatal cycle that she won’t have time to come after you.” With a quick salute, he was off. 

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“Is it possible to crave vodka,” Natasha groaned. 

“Yes, it’s called alcoholism,” Banner teased softly as he stirred whatever was in the skillet. 

“Ha,” she retorted, though he could see a smile teasing at her lips. “Aren’t you sassy today?”

“I’m sassy everyday, but usually Stark absorbs all the sassy and sarcastic in the room and exudes it as ego.” 

“Trouble in science paradise?” She asked, gentle concern coating her voice, as she drank her tea. 

“He blew up the baby gift I was building with a new prototype laser attachment for his suit.” If the doctor didn’t seem so sad, she might have laughed at the seemingly adorable pout that had never adorned his face before. 

“You were making a baby gift?”

He nodded sullenly while scooping some of the eggs out of the pan and onto two waiting plates. “Until Stark blew it up; the jackass,” he muttered. 

“What was it?” 

“It was a baby monitor system that could be connected to the private comm links you both wear during missions. It was completely safe. I installed a cloaking device in the motherboard, so you could also have visual of the baby when you are away. You wouldn’t have to worry about an enemy hacking into or distorting the feed. It could be used here in the tower and away on missions.” He sounded so proud of himself, and it really was the perfect gift. 

“Damn these hormones,” she cursed when her eyes started to water. “It sounds perfect, Bruce. It’s the thought that counts. You really didn’t need to get us a gift, much less build such a system. I can’t even imagine how much time you must have spent learning about coding, hacking, and video surveillance. This kid is lucky to have an uncle like you.” 

“To have an uncle like the Other Guy is probably more dangerous than you would like around your newborn.” 

“Bruce, hey,” she stood up from her chair at the counter and crossed to stand in front of the doctor. He was arguably one of the sanest people on their team, and in the years since the Chitauri invasion, they had bonded over sleepless nights and late-night tea. Usually, they sat in silence, both reading their latest books or articles while slowly drinking tea. Occasionally, they spoke softly about different things. She had learned over the course of these nighttime run-ins that he often needed reassurance in regards to matters concerning Hulk. “I have no doubt that the baby will be safe around you. I have no doubt that the baby will be safe around the Other Guy if he makes an appearance. The Other Guy has saved my ass more than a few times. While he is a bit on the larger side and I doubt I would ask him to babysit, he wouldn’t hurt the baby. Other Guy or not, you’re still this child’s uncle. We were all used to being alone. All of us are remarkably damaged. Together, we’re a little less broken. It’s a change from solitude, but we’re a family, a crazy ragtag group of people, yes, but a family nevertheless.” She offered him a rare smile before turning back to the counter. 

“Also, if you ever tell anyone about this softer side my lovely pregnancy hormones seem to bring out, I will find a way to make you suffer, a very creative way,” she threatened as she picked up her tea nonchalantly. 

“And there’s the Widow we all know and love,” he laughed. “Thanks though. I appreciate it,” Banner mumbled under his breath slightly. “When does Barton get back?” 

“Three days, I think.” 

“In case you were wondering, I’m going to be steering clear of you after the 12 hour mark.” He answered her questioning look with an answer. “Now, please don’t throw anything at me, but you get visibly snippy and crabby when Barton’s gone for longer than a day.”

“I figure if I get to be pregnant for nine months and then go through what people describe as 24 hours of painstaking torture… I mean labor, simple slip of the tongue. He can at least be here to bear witness to my discomfort or directly suffer for my discomfort.” 

“I’m sure that’s the only reason. It has nothing to do with the fact that you love him.” 

“Shut up,” she commanded, though there was gentleness to her voice that would not have been present if someone else had been the one to say it.

“Regardless, I’ll be in hiding. Here, have some eggs.”

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••  
True to his word, Banner hid in the lab. That was fairly normal though. The man loved the lab. Tony, still scarred from his forced viewing of a labor video, managed to steer clear of Natasha as well for the most part. Pepper was in China doing a press conference for Stark Industries latest gizmo or gadget, and Steve had taken a weekend trip to some old hotel in Brooklyn he used to know. So it seemed as if Natasha had the tower to herself for however short a period, and she absolutely basked in the silence. She took her tea out on the deck and watched the city. February in New York was cold, not dead-of-winter-Russia-cold, but cold enough to remind her of her original country. She rubbed her belly and spoke to it softly. 

“One day, your daddy and I will take you to Russia. We’ll see a ballet, even if it drives your father nuts.” The baby kicked in response and she smiled. “I know,” she continued. “Isn’t it funny to see Daddy go a little bit crazy?” 

When her face started to grow numb and her tea long since gone, she lifted herself slowly out of the deck chairs and back into the warmth of the communal floor. Steve leaned against the counters waiting for the coffee pot to give him his beverage. 

“You’re back early.”   
“The hotel’s heater broke, and it’s just too cold.” 

“This is nothing compared to Russia.” 

“I seem to recall. Eastern Europe in the winter… May as well be the ice caps. More tea?” 

“Yes, please.” She offered him her empty mug and leaned against the opposite counter. 

“Where’s Barton?” 

“Fury sent him on mission.” 

“That explains why Banner and Stark have disappeared,” he mused quietly. He turned to prepare his coffee and steep her tea. When he turned back there was water on the floor. “Hmm, one of the machines must have leaked. Why don’t you sit down? I’ll clean it up.” 

“Steve, I’m going to go out on a limb and say it wasn’t a machine that leaked,” Natasha said, her hands resting on her stomach. 

He gave her a confused look. She watched the realization hit him, and she almost laughed. Almost. His eyes switched rapidly between staring at her like a gaping fish and staring at the puddle on the floor in embarrassed horror. “Oh. Oh,” he said more quickly. “Oh! The baby… Oh my goodness. Okay. Sit. And… Oh…. Um… Breathe? Yes,” he amended. “Breathe.” 

“We need to go to the hospital. I’m having a baby,” she spoke slowly. 

“Baby. Okay. Oh… Um… STARK,” he bellowed at the top of his lungs. “STARK!” He frantically rushed around the kitchen, putting their mugs in the sink. “JARVIS, the plan… Code Widow… A,” he asked mid-shout. “No, that’s not it. THE BABY IS COMING, JARVIS. FIX IT!” 

“Captain, breathe,” Natasha coached from her spot on the closest chair. “The AI cannot fix this. JARVIS, please tell Banner and Stark that we need to visit the hospital as I’ve gone into labor.” 

“How are you calm? You’re having a child. Did you not see the video,” Rogers shrieked as he continued to flitter around her like an overly cautious and extremely confused protective. “STARK,” he shouted again. 

When Banner came rushing into the kitchen, Natasha could have hugged the man. “JARVIS, contact SHIELD to notify Barton of the situation and tell Pepper. Make sure Tony gets the car with the hospital bags and newborn carrier. Captain, get it together. If you can save the world from a psychotic god and his army of alien mutant warriors, you can help your friend get to the hospital. Got it? You ready, Natasha?” She nodded and let him help her out of the chair. “Okay, let’s go. Avengers Tower is about to have a new resident.”

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••  
48 hours into what was supposed to be a three-day mission, Barton sat freezing his ass off on the roof of some abandoned building watching his mark drink himself into oblivion. 

“God this guy is a wuss,” he said to himself. “Rogers could drink this dick under the table, and Rogers drinks juice instead of alcohol.” 

When a dark van pulled to a halt in front of the opposite building, Barton could have jumped for joy. “It’s about damn time,” he snarked at the balding man getting out of the car despite the fact that the man was entirely unaware of the archer’s presence. “Do you know how goddamn cold it is right now?” He switched his comm link off mute and said, “Targets on site.” When the mark and the balding man were face-to-face in what Barton assumed to be a traditional greeting, he spoke again. “Marks acquired.” One deep breath, and an arrow punctured the mark mere moments before an arrow punctured the balding man. “Marks terminated. Send in the maids. Extraction requested.” 

“Get your ass on the jet,” Fury ordered over the comm set. “Your wife is in labor.” For the first time since he was 10, Barton fumbled with his arrow. 

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“For the love of God, if you hand me another cup of ice chips, I will force them down your throat. It will not be at all comfortable. Do you understand? Should I try telling you ‘no more ice chips’ in another language? Would that help you understand? I am having a goddamn child. I will be pushing a pot roast sized human out of a very small hole. Is there a logical scenario in which ice chips help me birth a child? Either give me something useful or get the fuck out,” Natasha berated from her hospital bed. 

To say she was unhappy would be the understatement of the year. She had been in labor for 7 hours, and there was no sign of Clint. Only that he was on a plane and would be there soon. She wanted to kill Fury for sending the archer on the mission in the first place. So what if the baby was coming early? Fury always harped about how he is the director of the world’s greatest intelligence agency. He should have known the baby would come early. He should have known that the child of Natasha Romanov and Clint Barton would make sure nothing happened by the books. He should have known that the child would have a mind of its own. 

“Did you not see the other nurse flee from the room holding an unwanted bucket of ice chips? You, male nurse with a penis, yes… you. Why are you holding ice chips? It’s not a hot summers day. I’m not looking to cool a beverage. I’m having a child. You look like you’re about 10, so it’s possible you don’t know what that entails. Let me lay it out for you. I’m in fucking pain, and giving me ice chips is going to make me throttle you.” 

Banner was the only one allowed in the room until Clint showed up. Stark was banned because well Stark’s an idiot and tends to say the wrong things consistently because his verbal filter is faulty. Rogers was banned for continuing to shriek like a little girl who has seen a spider. One look at Natasha, red faced, sweaty, and cussing, and Rogers was more than happy to evacuate the hospital room in favor of the waiting room. Stark had JARVIS running extensive background checks on every hospital employee within a mile radius of Natasha and his unborn niece or nephew. The eccentric billionaire went so far as to demand to see the MCAT scores of a doctor that looked to be young enough to still own a Fisher-Price plastic stethoscope. 

“Switch to Russian, Natasha,” Banner suggested. She glared at him, but there was no threat behind her eyes, unlike the glares she fixed on the nurses who insisted on bringing more and more ice chips. “You can be more creative with your cussing in your native tongue,” he explained. 

10 hours in and Natasha was fed up. She wanted Clint and then she wanted the baby out. She demanded that it happen in that order and that it happen right that instant. 

At 15 hours, she was finally dilated enough to have an epidural. The doctor who administered the epidural was forced to show his diploma, ID, hospital badge, and resume to Stark before being allowed to enter the agent’s room with any form of medication. 

When Clint stumbled out of the elevator panting like he had just run a marathon, Stark clasped his shoulder in congratulations and pointed him towards Natasha’s room with a quietly muttered “Thank God.” 

“Tasha,” he called when he walked through the door. He stroked her hair, kissed her forehead, and interlaced their fingers. “Hey.” 

“Did you tell Fury I hate him?”

“Fury knows you hate him, darling. But I’ll be sure to explicitly remind him the next time I see him,” he amended quickly. “How are you doing?” 

“I’m in labor.” 

“She’s made three nurse attendants cry,” Banner interjected. “Good luck,” he said. “We’ll all be in the waiting room if you need anything.” He excused himself leaving the couple alone. 

“They kept bringing me ice chips,” she said in way of an explanation. 

“What good are those to a pregnant woman?” 

“I knew I loved you for a reason. Mission a success?” Her eyes raked over his face and body, looking for any new injuries. 

“Yes ma’am. Can I get you anything?” 

“Just stay. God, I’m glad you’re here,” she said kissing him again. “I thought you might not make it in time.” When her eyes sparkled with welling tears, she practically growled. “I really hate these hormones. I no longer have control over my tear ducts. A decade ago, I would have sworn I didn’t have tear ducts, and now, I can’t get them to stop watering pathetically.” 

“Hey, you’re not pathetic,” he chastised softly. “You’re beautiful and strong. You’re having a baby, our baby. You’re allowed a few tears, Tasha. God, I love you so much.”

“No, no. There’s more than enough sappy, pathetic, emotions in this room without you falling into the trap.” 

“Hmm. I’ll do my best to keep the sentimentalities inside, but I make no promises.” He smiled widely at her, and she knew he wasn’t planning on even trying to keep them contained. 

“You have to remember to look at the footage from Rogers realizing I was going into labor. If I hadn’t been leaking water all over the kitchen floor, I would have been laughing at his expression. It was priceless. He told JARVIS to fix it.” 

“The man can survive 70 years as a star spangled Popsicle, but show him a woman in labor and he’s down for the count. Good to know… I’ll have to remember that. Maybe if I bring it up while sparring, I’ll actually win against him.” 

“Don’t get your hopes up,” she laughed. 

“You really are beautiful, Tasha.” 

“Stop it. I’m bright red, sweating in places I didn’t know I could sweat, and I’m swollen and large. You are not allowed to call me beautiful if I can’t look down and see the tips of toes.” 

“I don’t care. I think you’re beautiful.” 

“I think you’re full of it.” There was a gentleness that coated her words. 

“Full of undeniable amazing personality? Yes. It is hard to be this awesome.” 

“I was going to say full of shit,” she countered simply. 

“Love you too, Tasha.” 

“For the love of God, if you, cowering individual, are bringing more ice chips into this room, I will begin listing very creative ways to flay you like a damn fish fillet with my IV tube. Would you like to hear all the ways I can kill you with the medical equipment at hand? I may be in labor, but that does not mean you are safe from bodily harm,” she cursed and shouted at the unsuspecting nurse in the doorway. 

“And the tally of crying nurses gets bumped up to four.”


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I still own nothing. I’m just playing around with Marvel’s characters for a while. No infringement intended. 

Natasha could hear Pepper squealing all the way from the elevator. Stark opened the door and ushered his girlfriend into the hospital room where the team huddled around Natasha and the new baby. 

“I can’t believe this came out of you,” Steve breathed in awe, holding the swaddled infant in his arms. “I don’t want to think about how this came out of you,” he amended. 

“My turn; give the billionaire genius the baby,” Stark practically demanded with a smug smile on his face.   
 “Do you know how to hold a newborn,” Banner asked cautiously. “It’s not a football that you hike down field. It’s a small baby, who, for future reference, is very easily damaged by things like explosive mishaps in the lab.” 

“You’re never going to let it go, are you? I’m sorry I blew up your toy. Now, give me the baby,” Stark instructed patronizingly, stretching his hands out to snatch the child from Steve’s arms. 

Clint perched on the edge of Natasha’s hospital bed, holding her hand. He leaned over to whisper something in her ear before he placed a sweet kiss to the side of her head. The woman looked exhausted. Pepper fretted over to her friend’s bedside. 

“Congratulations, Mom. How are you feeling?” 

“I can’t come up with an adjective that accurately describes this. Clint, make up a word,” Natasha asked. “It’s good to see you though. I’m glad you’re here,” she said genuinely. “I’ve also given up trying to control my emotions for the next few weeks. The hormones are wrecking havoc on my body, and I simply do not have the energy to maintain my usual façade,” the redhead informed her friend.

“You just had a baby, Natasha. You’re allowed to have emotions! I’m surprised Clint over here isn’t singing away.” 

“I may have squeezed his hand a little too tightly during labor. The doctor who looks to be only a few days older than my child said Clint’s hand isn’t broken. He also switched himself into sniper mode, it seems, so he can catch our son at the last minute when one of them drops him.” 

“You have a boy,” Pepper squealed excitedly. “A baby boy! That’s so great! What’s his name?” 

“Yeah, what is his name? It’s Tony, isn’t it? I’m the child’s namesake. It’s so touching,” Stark rambled as he looked down tenderly at the small baby in his arms. Pepper made a move to smack him on the back of the head, but he sidestepped and continued by saying. “Ah, ah, ah. You cannot hit me when I hold the baby. Oh god, he’s like a new shield. He’s perfect Pepper protection.”

“You did not just refer to my son as a shield,” Barton exclaimed. “He’s not even a day old yet. Your turn is over. Give me my kid.” 

“He’s more of a Pepper shield,” Stark amended. 

“Give me my son,” Barton repeated, getting off the bed to forcibly take the young boy away from Stark. “Banner, want to hold him?” The doctor nodded vigorously before carefully receiving the infant. 

“So what’s his name?”

“Philip Aiden Barton,” Natasha replied, exhaustion and love lacing her voice. 

“You sound happy,” Pepper whispered into her ear. “You sound really happy.” 

“I am. I have a son,” she confirmed. The way she said it sounded like she almost couldn’t believe that the boy was hers. 

The team continued to pass the baby in circles; constantly bickering over whose turn it was next while simultaneously mocking one another. When Banner noticed Natasha was starting to nod off, he motioned his head towards the waiting room. Pepper passed the baby to Clint before ushering the men out of the room. The door closed leaving the family of three alone. 

“Hey Philip,” Clint cooed at the young boy swaddled in his arms. A wide grin broke out across his face as he whispered those words. “I can’t believe it, Tasha. He’s ours. We made him. He’s perfect.” Clint kissed the baby’s head gently. “We have a son.” 

“Yeah, we do. He has your mouth,” Natasha happily smiled. “Coulson would be proud of us.” 

“Coulson would be proud you didn’t actually maim one of the unsuspecting nurses,” Clint countered. “You know Philip, your namesake, he was a great man. He would have loved to meet you.”

“He would have loved to see you terrorize Avengers Tower and the helicarrier,” Natasha laughed as she smoothed a finger over Philip’s chubby cheek. “His skin is so soft,” she mused. “Hi there,” she murmured when the baby opened his eyes to look at her. “Hi.” She relaxed her hands to her lap and simply watched her husband interact with their son. He was a natural. He looked so happy, and she couldn’t believe that this was her reality. She couldn’t believe she had been granted this chance at happiness. 

When Philip started to cry, Clint tried to calm him, but ultimately ended up passing the young boy to Natasha. She held him like the nice elderly nurse, who shared her opinion on the uselessness of ice chips, taught her. Philip’s little head rested on her chest, just above her heart. His body curled contentedly into her. She soothed a hand over his back in calming circles, and soon, his tears had all subsided. Clint pulled out his phone to take a picture, immediately setting it to be his background. 

“You better not have any photos of me actually in labor on that phone, Clint,” she threatened.  “No one in the world ever needs to see that. Can you just imagine? Rogers would faint.” 

“I still want to see the security feed of him panicking when your water broke in the kitchen. I might need to have JARVIS burn me a DVD of that.” 

“Don’t ever let Rogers see it, or we’ll never hear the end of the apologies. You can take the man out of the 1940s, but you can’t take the 1940s out of the man.” 

“That’s my line,” Clint pouted good-naturedly. “You stole my saying.”

“I just birthed your child. I’m sure you can spare one of your snarky lines,” she rebutted easily. Her eyelids fluttered as she fought back a yawn. She looked down and smiled fondly at the little boy resting on her chest. “He looks like you. He is absolutely perfect.” She yawned again, muffling some of the compliment. 

Clint brushed her hair back away from her face, tucking a few stray locks behind her ear. He kissed her forehead before suggesting she sleep. The agent nodded and carefully handed Philip back to his father. As Clint was about to go sit in one of the chairs, she stopped him before motioning to the bed. She scooted over as far as she could before he carefully adjusted himself next to her, Philip resting with his back against the man’s bent knees. Natasha tipped her head to use Clint’s shoulder as a pillow and the archer’s singing lulled her to sleep. 

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“Our baby hates sleep,” Clint grumbled. “Why. Why Philip? It’s so easy. I could do it right now and sleep until you graduate college.” 

“If you go all Rip Van Winkle on me and leave me alone, I will kill you,” Natasha threatened. “You’ve got a mission briefing tomorrow. You need your sleep. I’ll take him.” 

“Thank you,” he murmured, handing over Philip. He kissed the little boy’s head and whispered, “Please be good for Mommy.” 

“If only it were that easy.” She carried the boy back into his room and swaddled him again in a gray blanket with his initials. She spoke softly to him in Russian as she danced in slow circles around the room. It took nearly an hour, but finally, he slumbered contentedly in her arms. “I’ve got to remember that trick,” she whispered to herself. “Let’s get you into bed, so Mommy can get at least a few hours of sleep before you try to wail through the soundproofing in the apartment. Доброй ночи, моя влюбленность. Я тебя люблю.” “Goodnight, my love. I love you,” she translated for him. 

She tumbled tiredly into the bed after double-checking the baby monitor. 

Four hours later, Philip cried loudly. 

“I got him,” Clint volunteered.

“I don’t think you’ve got the parts he wants, but by all means, try to breastfeed. We can put it in the baby book,” she retorted, still half asleep. “Go back to bed, Clint.” He didn’t argue, just mumbled something unintelligible and curled back into his nest. 

Philip ate fairly easily and was soon asleep in her arms yet again. 

Three hours later, when Tony knocked loudly on the door, causing Philip to wake up in tears, Natasha cursed at him in every language she knew. She lifted him out of his bassinet to try and comfort him before stomping loudly to the door. 

“What,” she snarled at him. 

“Oy. Can I make you coffee,” he asked kindly, trying to slip back into her good graces.

“No. You woke him up. You can calm him down. Here,” Natasha demanded, handing Stark the baby. 

“Hey, little man. What’s cracking? You’re not a morning person. I get that. You’re mother isn’t a morning person either. Did you know one time I tried to talk to her before she had her coffee and she threw a fork at me?”

“I only did that once,” she asked with a smirk. “I could have sworn I’ve threatened you with bodily harm at least six times a day since I moved in. Even before that, I’m sure Natalie Rushman threatened you somehow.” 

“Like I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted,” Stark continued talking to Philip. “Your mommy isn’t a morning person. I’m not sure your daddy sleeps at all. Good luck when you’re a teenager trying to sneak in and out. If, by the grace of God, you manage to slip out of the apartment of two secret agents, JARVIS will catch you. Having four superheroes as uncles is both a fantastically awesome blessing and a sad depressing curse. Embrace the crazy, kid. That’s lesson number one.” 

“I should say something about that, but the sound of your voice seems to lull him to sleep like it does everyone else when you get going on one of your narcissistic monologues.”

“Hey now. I take offense at that!” He pretended to be wounded, dramatically gaping at her. 

“That’s the point, Stark. What did you want at 7:23 in the morning?” 

“I want to come with you to Philip’s check up.” 

“Why?” 

“I’m Tony Stark. It can’t hurt to have me there. Maybe you don’t have to wait as long in the waiting room, or maybe they don’t send the intern to give him his round of shots.” 

“Your nephew is making you soft, you old man.”

Tony looked down at the boy in his arms. “Maybe, but he’s my nephew. I’m allowed. So can I come?” 

“By all means, come and ‘secretly’ run background checks on everyone in the office. Can you watch him? I need to get dressed.” He nodded and settled into the couch. “Oh,” she called from the hallway. “Don’t do anything stupid.” 

“I don’t know why people keep telling me that,” Stark mused to the boy, who was looking up at him with large blue eyes. “I’m a genius. Don’t they know it’s impossible for me to do anything that can be defined as stupid?” He looked around the room, making sure no one was there. “You know, little man, you’re going to have a cousin soon. Would you like that?” He could have sworn the baby smiled at him, even though logically he knew it wasn’t possible just yet. “Oh!” He exclaimed. “Look,” Stark said, shifting to pull something out of his back pocket. He held up the bib that read, “These fools put my cape on backwards.”

“You look mighty handsome, kid,” Stark complimented after he fitted the bib around the boy’s neck. “Mighty handsome indeed, though I think you would look even better in a baby Iron Man suit. Can’t you just see the possibilities?” 

“Make my child a suit of any kind and you will learn just how fatal my trademark thigh choke is,” Natasha called as she ambled back down the hallway, cup of coffee in her hands. She let out a rare laugh when she saw the bib and quirked an eyebrow at Tony.

“What? I spoil all of you. You are all living here rent-free. Why shouldn’t he get the same perks?” 

She rolled her eyes at him before lifting Philip from his lap. “Let’s get you away from your crazy uncle. Appointment is at 9. Be ready at 8:30,” she called over her shoulder while making her way to the nursery. 

“Ma’am, yes ma’am,” he mock saluted as he left. 

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“Need a sparring partner, Cap?” Natasha stretched slowly as she looked at him. He had been training for at least two hours by the looks of it, but thanks to the super serum, the man could train for hours and not feel sore. There were days she really hated that. 

“You sure,” he hesitated. “You um… just had a baby.” He stuttered over his words and opted instead for a drink of water. Natasha simply raised her eyebrow and fixed him with a look that almost dared him to continue with his train of thought. When he didn’t she sighed. 

“Philip’s almost four months old. I’ve been sparring with Clint for the last month and a half. I could use the challenge.” 

“Yeah, okay,” he agreed somewhat reluctantly. He made his way to the mat and watched her carefully. In his mind he was already on the defensive. When the two first started sparring together, it had taken him at least six months to actually fight her. Part of his 1940s attitude, he felt awful hitting a lady, even if the lady was asking for it literally. Two minutes into the fight and he hadn’t thrown a single punch, merely deflecting and retreating. She threw a combo that knocked him off guard and one of her roundhouse kicks caught him square in the shoulder and sent him falling to the side. 

“Stop holding back,” she yelled, each word emphasized with a swinging blow to his head. He made a grunting noise as two of the punches connected with the side of his face. “Come on,” she demanded. 

He let out a deep, controlled breath before steeling his nerves and putting himself back in the fight. He landed a punch to her stomach before she countered with an acrobatic move that had him flat on his back. “Mercy,” he said, lifting himself slowly off the floor. 

“Mercy, really? You could have easily deflected that or fought back.” He disappointed her. He knew her well enough to know that, but she didn’t let it show in her tone, which was neutral besides the hint of disbelief. “I’ll let you get back to your workout then. I’ll work on the bars.” Rogers dropped his head slightly before returning to his line up of punching bags. He watched out of the corner of his eye as she jumped gracefully onto the taller of the two uneven bars. She worked through a gymnastic routine her body memorized years ago. With each satisfying thwack of her hands making contact with the bar, she felt herself relax more and more. As Rogers destroyed his first punching bag, Natasha dismounted perfectly, sticking the landing. Afterwards, she moved a Pilates mat to the corner directly in the sunlight to begin another routine. 

When she finally finished her training session, she was dripping in sweat and breathing heavily. Between breastfeeding and her workouts, she was almost down to her starting weight. While she loved Philip, she wasn’t too fond of the extra pounds she gained during pregnancy. She was eager to be rid of it. 

Natasha rode the elevator up to the communal floor where she saw Philip propped up in his Bumbo chair, watching Banner with rapt attention. She leaned against the archway for a moment and watched the doctor interact with her son. The usually dignified man continued making silly faces at the young boy, reaching over to tickle him when he was graced with a toothless grin. When the baby saw his mother standing off to the side, he gurgled happily and reached his chubby arms out to her. 

“Is that your mommy,” Banner asked. “Here we go,” he lifted him from the chair and blew a raspberry kiss to his stomach, causing the little boy to laugh. 

“You’re really good with him,” Natasha remarked as she lifted her son to her hip.

“He’s fun. How was your session?” 

“Good. Thanks for watching him.”    
“My pleasure. When’s Barton back?”

“A couple of days, I think. When he gets back, I’m scheduled for my first mission.” 

“I’m sure you’ll be able to handle it,” Banner reassured; though he knew she didn’t need the encouragement. “Let’s face it. The whole spy thing you’ve got down pat, and you’re damn good at the maternal thing.” He nodded his head toward the baby in her arms who was smiling happily and gripping her hair in a tiny fist. 

“You don’t think I’m crazy to go back on a mission?” 

“I know, Natasha. I would think you were crazy if you didn’t. Having a baby doesn’t mean you lose your career. It just means you have a few more things to juggle. If you weren’t good before, I would say you’re going to be invincible now, if only because you want to make it home to him. His presence in the world just might make you a better spy. More human, yes, but I’m sure you’ll find a way to work that into a strength. It’ll probably make your undercover personas that much more believable.” 

“Thanks,” she said sincerely. “Come on, младенец. Can you say bye to Uncle Bruce?” Natasha lifted his chubby little arm and waved before offering a smile and returning to their floor. 

“Maybe your daddy will be home soon,” she whispered into the boy’s ear as she nuzzled his cheek with her nose. “I know you miss Daddy’s singing.” He captured her face between his small hands. She made a face and Philip laughed gleefully. “Daddy loves you, little one. I love you too.” She lifted him over her head and blew a kiss on his stomach, making him giggle again. 

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••  
Her first mission was more of a test than anything. She fought the urge to roll her eyes at the ease of it when Hill handed over the mission brief. She raised an eyebrow at her handler. Her look clearly asking why her particular skill set was necessary for such an elementary mission. Hill shrugged and offered no further explanation. 

When she was alone in her room on base, she reviewed the brief again, spending time memorizing the details of each aspect. She allowed herself a chuckle when reading the allotted time for the mission. 48 hours, the line declared in the large, bold print. Natasha decided to place a bet with herself. 12 hours from drop off to extraction and she would treat herself to a mani-pedi combo. It sounded like a great bet, one she knew she would win. 

After memorizing the file, she focused on cleaning and checking her weaponry. It was easy for her to slip into the necessary mindset. After all, her body, her mind, everything about her had been trained to focus on the mission and accomplish the goals at hand. She knew that allowing her mind to drift to any topic besides the mission and its parameters would cause her to make a mistake. Mistakes in her field were usually fatal. Because she desperately wanted to return home to her son and husband after each mission, she forced herself to push them out of her mind and focus solely on the task at hand. 

For once, Natasha was appreciative of the rigorous emotional and mental training Red Room inflicted upon her. 

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••  
“I owe myself a manicure and a pedicure,” she voiced cheerfully as she waltzed into their apartment.

“Good mission then,” Clint asked, his voice floating in from the kitchen. 

“10 hours and 48 minutes,” Natasha confirmed. “Hi,” she greeted as she kissed him. “And hello to you, Philip.” The baby gurgled up at her happily. “Did he actually eat any of the food or is he wearing most of it?” 

“Definitely wearing most of it,” Clint laughed. “Fury called.” 

“Oh?” 

“BlackHawk is needed for a mission.” 

“BlackHawk,” she turned and leaned against the opposite counter.

“My thoughts exactly,” he mused as he offered Philip another spoonful of baby food. “Someone started a new nickname for our partnership. My bet is Tony. It sounds like something ridiculous he would come up with just to irk us. Anyway, it’s the combination of my name and yours.” 

“I got that part, smartass,” she smirked. “What’s the mission?” 

“One day, we will have to stop cussing in front of him.” In response to Natasha’s raised eyebrow, he amended. “I may have to work on it more than you, but still, you aren’t exactly known for your G-rated language.” She crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a look that dared him to continue with his train of thought. “Anyway, mission,” Clint sidetracked. “There’s an arms dealer hiding out in Yekaterinburg who has a liking for sassy red-headed tourists, so much so there are five women with a similar description who have seemingly vanished.” 

“So we locate the mark and terminate him,” she asked. 

“Interrogate and terminate her,” he corrected.

“Oh.” 

“So,” Clint prompted while he slowly lifted Philip from his high chair, depositing him in the sink. Testing the water in the other half of the sink, he used the nozzle to rinse the baby food remnants off his son. “We’ve got to work on actually eating the food, kiddo.” Natasha left quickly and returned with his baby shampoo, washcloth, and dry towel. 

“Here, love,” she murmured sweetly, passing the young child a rubber duck to play with. 

“So,” he asked again. “And why don’t I get a sweet pet name?”

“Okay.” The woman completely ignored his second question with a satirical eye roll in his direction.

“Can I get more than a one-word response?” She lifted an eyebrow at him, letting the look in her eyes respond for her. She soaped up the washcloth as Clint puttered the duck around Philip. “Do we need to talk about how we’re going to manage everything?” 

“Basically, you’re not allowed to die. Sound good,” she asked with a smirk. 

“You said that when we got married.” 

“I meant it when we got married. I mean it now. Clint, we’re agents. This is what we do. While it sucks to leave him behind, we’ve got a job to do. Kids are expensive, and the job pays the bills.” 

“You know as much as I do that at this point it isn’t about money,” he retorted. He wanted to know what she was thinking; he didn’t want to hear her automated responses. 

“We talked about this,” she sighed with a shake of her head. “The job defines me. I can’t just stop. I’m an agent. I’m a mother. I’m a wife. Those roles aren’t self-negating. I am all three. I miss him desperately when I’m gone, but I can’t just stop. It’s the only thing I knew for so long. I can’t just walk away from it. I wouldn’t know how.” 

“Okay,” he nodded, a soft smile on his lips. 

“Can I get more than a one-word response,” she rebutted with a smirk. 

He scoffed at her before laughing. “I just wanted to make sure your feelings hadn’t changed. I understand. Just remember, you say the word, and Stark will hire us as security consultants or something. We will still be Avengers; that doesn’t change.” She nodded knowingly. “So I’m not allowed to die,” he continued. She could hear the joke forming in his head and rolled her eyes in preparation. 

“Your daddy’s an idiot,” Natasha teased comically as she rinsed all the suds off Philip before wrapping him in his towel. 

“I mean if I die, I’m dead. I know your wrath is far reaching, but come on, Tasha, that’s a whole ‘nother ball game,” he joked. 

“Oh yeah,” she asked. She swayed gently on the balls of her feet, cradling her son in her arms. “You really want to try that? Go on; try and die on me. First of all, I would bring your sorry ass back and kill you all over again for putting me through that. Secondly, Phil is wherever you would be going, and I would bet almost anything that man would be screaming and wailing at you until you were begging to be back. We’ll call it compounded wrath.” She fixed him with a look that he took to mean I-know-we-are-joking-but-do-not-die-on-me-ever. “Like I said, little one, your daddy’s an idiot, but we love him anyway.” 

“Shit,” he grumbled. “Who are we going to leave him with for a week?” 

“Stark is vetoed,” Natasha responded automatically. “We’ll come back to an infant in a perfect replica of the Iron Man suit. Though Pepper would make sure Tony doesn’t go too crazy,” she considered. 

“Thor is in Asgard. That leaves Banner and Rogers.” 

“Banner would be a good choice. Rogers is leaving to drive down the coast on his motorcycle.” 

“Why don’t we leave him with Banner and Pepper,” Clint suggested as he expertly diapered the little boy in question. “Mission brief is tomorrow. Departure is the next day. Fury said we could stay here after the brief, even though it’s against protocol, so you could spend some time with Philip before we left. I think the old man is actually a softie.” 

“I wouldn’t say that to him,” Natasha advised. “Ever,” she emphasized. “That’s a sure fire way to be on extended missions in Timbuktu.” 

“Who doesn’t love Mali this time of year? I mean it’s a great place to get a way. The dictionary references it as an extreme place of distance. I can sit in the middle of the desert with a camel and get sand in really uncomfortable places. And I would get to see that vein in Fury’s forehead throb in irritation. It sounds like a win-win.” 

“Well, you have fun with that. Philip and I are going to be here in our lush New York suite in Avengers Tower in the air conditioning with fantastic water pressure and no sand whatsoever.” 

“I do like the water pressure.” He stroked his chin pretending to balance the alternatives in his head. “What do you think, Philip? Should Daddy irk the Cyclops? We could go hang out with the camels!” The little boy grinned up at him as he gripped his feet in his hands and rocked back and forth. “That’s a yes,” Clint pointed out. “Look at that smile, Tasha. Our son wants me to irritate Fury. I now have a legitimate excuse.” 

“Daddy is blaming his bad behavior on you already,” she informed her son as she picked up off the changing table. The agent perched on the rocking chair in the corner, bouncing the baby on her knees slightly. “When was the last time you needed a reason to piss off Fury?” 

“It’s part of my boyish charm,” he countered as he leaned against the changing table. She scoffed at him. “It’s why you fell in love with me,” he added. 

“Is it now?” 

“Mhmm,” he hummed. “You can’t resist my enchanting jokes and mockery.” 

“If I recall, I spent the better part of two years either silently glaring at you or openly threatening you with death and painful forms of torture.”

“But eventually, you fell for me. I slowly wore you down, and now you’ll laugh at some of my jokes,” Clint exclaimed victoriously.

“You’re right,” she consented. “11 years, countless missions, a marriage, and a child later, I will laugh at some of your jokes. Your charm works so efficiently.” 

“You could still be cussing at me in Russian,” he pointed out. 

“I still do cuss at you in Russian,” she countered. “And other languages based on the offense.” 

“Let me rephrase. You used to cuss at me in Russian, and the underlying threat of me dying painfully was very strong. Now, it’s not as strong. Now, you’re cussing just to cuss. There’s less threat behind your obscenities now,” he amended. “It’s how the boyish charm works.” 

“Your daddy’s an idiot,” she whispered to her son, though there was a smile visible on her face and in the tone of her voice. 

“At this rate, that’s going to be his sentence,” he rumbled. “Can you imagine if his first word was idiot? I can see it now. We will sit Philip in his Bumbo seat in front of Stark and just let him say idiot over and over again. Being insulted by his baby nephew might deflate his ego a little bit.”

“Stop devising plans of such nature around your infant child, Barton,” she chastised. “Though, that would be brilliant.” 

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Philip’s first word turned out to be “no.” Barton blamed that on Fury, Pepper, and Natasha. Conversations (if they could be called such) often went in a never-ending pattern. 

“Do you want your duck?” 

“No.”

“Do you want a bottle?” 

“No.”

“Should we read a book?” 

“No.”

“Do you love your Uncle Tony,” Banner prompted from across the kitchen with a smirk. 

“No,” the little boy responded gleefully. 

“Isn’t your Uncle Bruce just the greatest guy,” Stark retorted with a glare. 

“No,” Philip chanted with a happy smile, occasionally clapping his hands. 

“Stop using my child to indirectly insult each other,” Natasha chided from the other counter where she was pureeing a cup of fruit for Philip’s snack.

“We’re teaching him a wider vocabulary,” Stark denied. “Philip, can you say Uncle Tony is amazing?” 

“You’re right, Tony. He knows one syllable. It’s completely logical to think he can parrot back your entire egotistical sentence,” Banner mocked. “That’s like me asking him to write an equation to trace gamma radiation in his baby food mush.” 

“Of course, because sentences and tracking algorithms are of comparable intelligence,” Tony rallied. 

“When he’s 11 months old, it might as well be.” 

“Stop bickering around the baby, boys,” Pepper scolded as she entered the kitchen. 

“We weren’t bickering,” Stark returned with a childish smile. 

“You are always bickering about something.” 

“No,” Philip giggled. 

“Ha!” Stark pumped his fist victoriously in the air. “See that? Little Man is on my side! High five,” he requested of the small child. Philip tilted his head and frowned slightly at the large hand in his face. No one mentioned that it was a look Natasha typically wore when she was trying to put the pieces of a puzzle together. Stark lifted one of Philip’s hand with his other hand and guided their hands together in a high five motion. “Heck yes!” 

“It’s the only word he knows. It doesn’t count,” Banner groaned. “Trust me. If he knew you like we do, he wouldn’t be on your side.” Stark gasped and pretend to be hurt. 

“You’re just jealous I got a high five and you didn’t.” 

“Children,” Pepper sighed. 

“Ha,” Stark mocked again. “You just got lumped into the deep sigh of annoyance,” he pointed at Banner. “How’s your IQ looking now?”    
“Still higher than yours,” Banner retorted. 

“I was mainly referring to you, Tony, but since there is actually a child in the room, I figured the plural would be more accurate.” 

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On his first birthday, Philip flipped a cupcake on Clint’s face. He looked up through his blue eyes at his father and smirked. He lifted a single chubby finger and drew it through the icing clinging to Clint’s skin before sucking it into his mouth. Natasha couldn’t hold back the laugh that escaped. She was grateful Pepper caught the moment on film and reminded herself to ask for duplicates of all the photos. 

“Hey now, birthday boy,” Clint chuckled. “Cake is for eating. Remember what we talked about, kid? We eat the food. We don’t wear it.” 

“I think you should reconsider. I think the icing would go well with your suit,” Rogers teased. 

“Would it not throw off his aim,” Thor boomed. “It would always make a good mid-battle snack.” His laughter seemed to make the room vibrate with its pitch and volume. 

“Barton, I have to agree. I think it could really help you blend into a crowd when we’re undercover.” Natasha joined in on the mockery. She couldn’t help it. She was determined to enjoy the little moments. 

“Oh do you,” he stalked towards her with a dangerous smile on his face.

“Clinton Francis Barton, don’t you dare.” He rushed her and wrapped his arms around her smaller frame. Kissing her playfully, he managed to smear a good amount of icing from his face onto hers. When he pulled away and retreated to hide behind Philip and his highchair, she blinked her eyes free of the blue icing and licked her lips before laughing. Her laughter seemed to be contagious and everyone joined in with her. 

“Oh,” Stark jumped after Natasha handed Clint a wet towel to wipe off the icing on his face. “He can open his presents! Come here, little man.” He picked up the little boy and tossed him in the air, causing the 1 year old to squeal excitedly. Tony put him down on the floor in front of the pile of presents. Philip turned around and looked at the adults behind him before tilting his head to look at the presents. 

“Ma Ma,” he called and reached up to her. “Up, Ma Ma. Up.” When he was in her arms, he pointed to the presents clearly wanting her to do all the work. 

“Alright, love. Let’s open your presents.” She sat cross-legged on the floor with Philip comfortably situated in her lap. Clint passed presents to her, and she helped the little boy unwrap them. Every gift seemed to make music and loud noises with accompanying swirling lights. Philip was hooked and immediately wanted to play with everything. He crawled out of Natasha’s lap and sat down in the middle of all his wrapping paper. Finding an empty bag, he put it on his head and rocked side-to-side giggling. 

The adults continued to chat and swap stories. At all times, someone was playing with Philip, showing him how to bounce the new ball that lit up and sparkled or showing him how to push the button to turn on the pillow lamp that projected the stars on the ceiling. Stark showed him how to hold the mini guitar and make music. Pepper passed Natasha a bottle of extra-strength aspirin with a knowing smile. When he was all tuckered out, Philip found Clint in the mess of adults and clamored into his lap. Natasha handed her partner their son’s blanket from the couch. The little boy gripped it tightly and snuggled into his father as he started to doze. 

“I’ve got to say,” Rogers commented. “You both seem to be meant to do this. I mean you are both natural in the field too,” he quickly backtracked. ”You really are good parents,” he complimented with a fond smile on his face. “I mean look how happy he is.” Rogers gestured to the boy slumbering in Clint’s lap with a loose fist around his blanket and a thumb in his mouth.

“He’s a good kid,” Barton agreed, running a gentle hand through his son’s shaggy sandy blonde hair. 

“He looks just like you,” Pepper mentioned.

“But he acts just like her,” Tony added. “Did you see that smirk earlier? That screamed Natasha. I’m also pretty sure he said something in Russian the other day.” 

“Sounds like we did good, Tasha,” Clint mused. He smiled lovingly at the little boy and then at his wife. 

“I want one,” Tony proclaimed. 

“One what,” Banner prompted already looking nervous with the direction of this conversation. 

“One of those.” 

“You want one of me,” Barton asked. “Sorry, bud. You’re shit out of luck. I’m one of a kind.” 

“Not you, you idiot,” Stark countered. “A baby. I want one.” He turned to Pepper. “I want one,” he repeated seriously. The taller woman looked at him with wide eyes. 

“On that note, I’m going to go hide in the gym,” Rogers coughed as he excused himself. “Happy birthday, Philip,” he whispered quietly to the little boy. 

“Your proposition sounds swell,” Thor agreed much louder than the captain. 

“I think the lab is calling my name.” Banner excused himself.

Natasha jerked her head towards the elevator before rising to her feet and gently untangling Philip from Clint’s lap. The archer got up and quickly followed her. They would clean up later. 

“I want one,” Tony repeated sincerely. It was the last part of the conversation Natasha and Clint heard as the elevator doors closed and delivered them to their floor. 

Cradling the sleeping boy, she walked quietly to the nursery. She kissed his forehead and hugged him to her chest. “Sleep tight, little one. I love you,” she whispered as she laid him down in the crib. 

“I think I agree with Stark,” Clint voiced as soon as Natasha closed the door behind her. 

“You agree that he wants one?” The confusion was evident in her voice. She walked over to the couch and dropped onto it gratefully. 

“No. Well, yes. I know he wants one. He talked about it before.” Natasha lifted her eyebrows in a clear, unspoken question. “We were drinking. It makes him open up and get into story-telling mode or something.” He paused as he tried to find the confidence to spill his thoughts. She waited patiently. Both of them had difficulty verbalizing feelings and emotions regardless of the trust or love in their partnership. When he finally spoke, her eyes widened and her jaw dropped. “I think I want another one, Tasha.”


End file.
